Date sent:        Tue, 30 Dec 1997 17:56:33 -0500 (EST)
From:             Rebecca Rusnak 
Subject:          The Lottery (1/1)


The Lottery
by Rebecca Rusnak


AUTHOR'S NOTES:  This is a crossover with Shirley Jackson's classic story,
"The Lottery".  If you've not read that story, you will be able to
understand this just fine, but I highly recommend reading hers first, just
because.  It's an incredible story, short but very chilling.  Anyone
interested can e-mail me and I can send you the original story.

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, etc.  The situations
of "The Lottery" were created by Shirley Jackson, and I do not know who owns
them now, but I mean no harm or infringement.

RATING:  R for violence and graphic imagery. 

WARNING!!  This story contains Disturbing Content and if the thought of that
bothers you, stop reading now.  I know feelings are strong on this issue, so
I'm warning you now. Any flames will be returned to sender, postage due.  

CLASSIFICATION:  CA

SPOILERS:  None really, although maybe a small one for Redux II.  This is
set in an alternate timeline, one that branches off after the events of Redux.

SUMMARY:  When Mulder and Scully investigate strange events in a small town,
they discover an entire village's shocking secret.

THANKS:  To the wonderful group of people who read this and offered their
help: Elspeth, Holly, Jen, Jo-Ann and especially Leyla. Thanks to all of
you.  I may not have taken all your suggestions, but it was fun reading them. 


The Lottery
by Rebecca Rusnak



****

>From an unmarked diary
June 24, 1999

It's that time of year again.  Soon we will all gather in the town square,
young and old, rich and poor.  Even the ill and infirm will make it.  Dave
is excited--he has been chosen to help this year, and he walks around like a
peacock, strutting with pride.

I will see you soon.  Bobby has promised me that much, at least, and I hold
tight to that promise.  I think some of the others secretly long to be
chosen, but the thought of hearing my name called out is the only thing
keeping me sane. Knowing I will be with you again soon.

Christabel is calling.  I must go.

****

One year earlier
June 25, 1998
J. Edgar Hoover Building


"Scully.  Come here.  I want you to look at something."  There was finally
some interest in his voice, and her heart quickened.  It had been so long.

"It's not a Bigfoot sighting, is it?" she teased gently.

Mulder gave her a small smile, one slightly tinged with sadness, but she was
thrilled to see it just the same.

Since February, since a last disastrous meeting with his sister, he had been
quieter, more withdrawn, smiling infrequently and never laughing anymore.
She had tried to draw him out and get him to talk to her, but he had
remained stubbornly silent in the face of her tears and threats alike.

Now for the first time in months he was showing interest in a case.  Scully
made an impulsive decision:  no matter how ridiculous the case was, she
would be excited and enthusiastic.

Mulder tapped the file folder open on his desk.  "Take a look at this."

She rounded the desk and came over to stand beside him.  "What am I looking at?"

Mulder said nothing, and she looked down at the top sheet of the file.
Census data, going back to 1950, for the town of Martinville, Nebraska.
There were columns of figures, rows of meaningless data, and she shook her
head in confusion.  "I don't--"

"Look at these two."  Mulder pointed to two columns on the far right of the
page.  One was labeled Birth Rate.  The other was Mortality Rate.

Obligingly Scully scanned the figures, her eyes moving down the page.
Puzzled, she turned the paper over and flipped through the file until she
reached the last set of statistics, dated 1992.  "Mulder, how can--"

Wordlessly he handed her another file.

More figures marched across this page, and it took her a moment to realize
what she was looking at.

A breakdown of the yearly statistics by month, computer generated.  With
growing astonishment, she read the numbers.  Finally she looked up.  "Is
this a computer error?"

"What do you think, Scully?"  It was not said in his usual slightly mocking
tone, that way he had of challenging her, but she snatched at the bait anyway.

"I think we should go visit Martinville, Nebraska."

****

>From an unmarked diary
June 25, 1999

Christabel gave me a present today.  A new shirt, for the big day.  She made
me try it on, to see if it fit, then told me to take it off and not wear it
again until that morning.

It's a shame, really.  The shirt is a nice shade of blue.  I hate to think
of it covered in blood.

****

June 26, 1998


The town was isolated, eerily so.  They had flown into Omaha, and had been
on the road for two hours now.  Scully sat in the passenger seat while
Mulder drove.  The countryside flashed by in a blur of dusty browns and lush
greens.  She concentrated on it, on the county road before them, on anything
to avoid thinking about the impossible picture painted by the figures in
that file.

The silence stretched out between them, but it was not the uncomfortable
silence that had weighed upon them so often in the past few months.  She was
reluctant to break it.

"You know, Mulder, recent studies of pheromones show that groups of people
living together in close quarters often have synchronized biological and
emotional events."

"Yeah, but this isn't the same as a houseful of women who menstruate at the
same time each month, Scully.  This is..." Mulder paused.  "This is
different.  This is much bigger than that."

She conceded that it was.  "But there still has to be an explanation for
these figures."  There *had* to be an explanation.  She did not let herself
think beyond that.  Yet her eyes were drawn time and again to the file in
her lap, to those damning statistics.

Births:  Varying levels through the fall and winter months.  In the first
half of April the birthrate skyrocketed, nearly triple that of the next
highest month.  The rest of April and the month of May showed a sharply
falling rate.  June's birth rate was virtually zero.  Consistently.

Deaths:  Varying levels through the fall and winter months.  Dwindling rates
through the spring, stopping abruptly in late May.  The first part of June
showed no deaths.  Late June and July had an inflated rate.  Consistently.

Taken as a whole, the data was even more alarming.   Since 1950, the first
year census data was available, both birth and mortality rates for the town
were always consistent, varying by a few percentage points at most.

It was this very consistency that scared her.

"You wanna hear my explanation?" Mulder asked.

She nodded, turning away from the scenery to look at him.  He gripped the
wheel tightly, and he was still too pale, but his eyes shone with the old
excitement.

"I think that every June, the town of Martinville experiences a cataclysmic
event.  Something happens every year at the same time, and the townsfolk
know it."

"What do you mean?"

Mulder glanced at her.  "Sixty miles from here is the state line, and not
too much farther beyond that is the old UFO hot spot, Lake Okobogee."

UFO's.  She had to bite the inside of her cheek from grinning deliriously.
Instead she cocked an eyebrow and injected the right amount of skepticism
into her voice.  "A UFO hot spot."

"Think about it, Scully.  Look at the figures.  The way the death rate drops
off before June.  These people want to witness this--this event, whatever it
is.  And the high birth rate nine months later.  Couldn't that be taken as a
celebration of sorts?"

"A celebration of what?  Mulder..."  She allowed a smile to twist her lips,
but he did not look over at her.

"I think these people are being visited yearly, Scully.  It's possible they
are not entirely human.  That could explain the consistency of the mortality
rate."

Not entirely human.  She couldn't keep it in any longer; she had to laugh.
"Oh, Mulder..."

"What?"  Genuinely puzzled, he glanced over at her.

Her smile softened.

****

>From an unmarked diary
June 25, 1999


All year I've been very good.  I didn't think about it, or how we came here,
but today I've been flooded with memories.  I've walked around in a daze,
and old man Delacroix even commented on my absent-mindedness when I was
working this afternoon at the store.  I apologized hastily, but not before
Dave saw.  I suppose when he gets home tonight he will talk to Christabel
about it.

We laughed in the car, I remember that.  I think that was the last time I
laughed, that last day I spent with you.

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 26, 1998


There was no hotel in the town, and their luggage remained in the trunk of
the car.  She followed Mulder down the length of Main Street, filled with
conflicting emotions.  The people they passed greeted them warmly, but there
was a dim puzzlement in their eyes, and a vague resentment.  

"Didn't 'Children of the Corn' take place in Nebraska?" Scully muttered to
her partner.

Mulder flashed her a smile.  "Don't worry, you won't have to shoot any kids.
I've seen plenty of grown-ups."

She stopped walking.  "Plenty of adults, yes, but where is the sheriff's
office? Where is the law enforcement?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Maybe they don't need any law enforcement."

"Oh, come on," she scoffed. "Not even--"

"Can I help you folks?"  The voice that spoke was friendly, and Scully and
Mulder turned around.

"My name's Scott Graves.  I'm the postmaster here.  Anything I can do for you?"

Mulder stepped forward.  "Yes, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this is
Special Agent Dana Scully.  We're with the FBI."  Both agents held up their
badges, and Scott Graves studied them carefully.  Satisfied, he nodded.

"What brings the FBI out here?"

"Mr. Graves, is there a local sheriff we can talk to?" Scully asked.

For a brief second, Graves' eyes narrowed, then he smiled and shook his
head.  "No, ma'am.  I'm probably the closest thing to authority you'll find
around here.  Me and Bobby Martin."

"Martin.  Is that the family the village is named for?"  Mulder's question
was mild enough, but Graves' smile died.

"Yes, sir, it is," he said shortly.

"What do you do without a sheriff?" Scully asked. 

Graves rocked back on his heels.  "Well, ma'am, this here's a quiet town, a
small town.  We don't really have many problems.  Modern world seems to have
passed us by, and most folks don't really seem to mind."

Suddenly she was reminded of another small town, and another man telling her
the world had left his home town alone.  Then she thought of that man and
his wife, beaten to death in the bedroom of their unlocked house by three
misshapen brothers.  A convulsive shudder wracked her, and Graves gave her a
smile meant to be commiserating.

"You okay ma'am?  You don't look so good."

She squared her shoulders, raised her head.  "I'm fine."

****

>From an unmarked diary
June 26, 1999


I keep thinking...

Maybe if we hadn't angered Graves, you would still be alive, and I wouldn't
be here.  Dave and Christabel Hutchinson remind me constantly of how kind
they have been to me, taking me into their home and giving me a job at the
store.  From the way Dave talks you would think he had built the store with
his own two hands, and not inherited it through Christabel and her father.

Tomorrow is the day.  Sunny and clear in the weather forecast.  The old
timers say it's always like this when the day comes around.  Even the oldest
man here, Clyde Dunbar, can't remember a rainy June 27th.

I miss you, but I will be with you soon.

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 26, 1998


The tiny offices of the "Martinville Register" were located on Main Street,
as were most of the town's businesses.  The building was empty except for an
old man who introduced himself as Steve Adams.  "Most of the folk here are
farmers," he explained.  "They don't make it into town during the day very
often."  He was mild-mannered and spoke amiably enough, but he, too, had
that quizzical gleam behind his eyes.

"Mr. Adams, do you keep the town's records here?" Mulder asked.  Scully knew
he had hoped to find a town hall, or lacking that, a library, but they had
come up short.

Adams scratched his chin.  "What do you mean, records?"

"Birth certificates, marriage licenses, death certificates.  That sort of
thing. Census data."

The old man shook his head.  "No, nothing of that nature.  Now, if you
wanted to see the newspaper for October 8, 1964, I could oblige you, but no,
sir, I don't keep anything like you say."

Mulder frowned slightly, and Scully spoke up.  "Where would such information
be kept, sir?"

Adams appeared confused.  "What do you mean? By the person involved, I
should think.  Wouldn't you say?"

Scully blinked, exchanged a look with Mulder.  "That's...very possible.
Thank you for your time, Mr. Adams."

"Any time," the newspaperman said.  "You come back if you need anything."

Mulder turned for the door, then looked back at Adams.  "Oh, there is one
more thing.  Is there a place in town we can stay the night?  I didn't see a
hotel here."

"Nope," Adams agreed cheerfully.  "You won't find one here.  You can try
Dave and Christabel Hutchinson.  They sometimes let out rooms for rent.
Maybe they'll have something for you."

Mulder thanked the man, then followed Scully outside.  For a moment his hand
touched the small of her back, then they were on the dusty sidewalk, and his
hand dropped back to his side.

"Something is not right here, Mulder," she said quietly, firmly.

He nodded.  "Yeah, I think these folks are scared of us.  They're almost too
friendly."

She nodded in agreement.  "Let's find the Hutchinsons.  Maybe they'll tell
us more."

Mulder smiled wryly.  "If the price is right, I'm sure."


****

>From an unmarked diary
June 26, 1999


I said my prayers tonight, for the first time in a long time.  I think I had
stopped believing in God shortly before I met you.  But tonight I got down
on my knees and prayed that God would take me safely to you tomorrow, that
we should be re-united.

Christabel is coming upstairs.  Must turn out the light.

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 26, 1998


Dave and Christabel Hutchinson ran the local grocery store.  The store had
belonged to her father, Christabel explained, and when her father had died a
few years ago, the store had come to her and Dave.

"We took over, and since I had practically grown up in the back room, it
wasn't difficult at all.  Folks were used to seeing me in the place.  They
hardly noticed the change.  Can I get you two some more coffee?"

"No, thank you," Scully demurred.  She was pleasantly full from dinner, a
roast chicken with plenty of green vegetables and cornbread.  She had
noticed Mulder eating heartily, too, and was glad.  "Can I help you clean
up?" she asked.

"No, no, sit down."  Christabel Hutchinson waved her hand at Scully.  "I'll
get it.  You sit and talk.  That's what you came here for, isn't it?" She
disappeared into the kitchen, and Scully shook her head slightly.

"Sure is a shame for you folks to come all the way out here for nothing,"
Dave said to Mulder.  

Mulder shrugged easily.  "Not nothing.  I just had the best meal I've eaten
in months."

Hutchinson beamed.  "Christabel's a good cook, all right."

No doubt she was, but Scully knew Mulder was hiding his disappointment.
During dinner he had carefully broached the subject of the lake and UFO's,
and Hutchinson had laughed.

"Yeah, we hear about the people down there," he'd said.  "Their crazy UFO
stories.  We all just figure it's a way to bring in the tourists, pump some
money into the town's economy."  He'd given his wife a conspiratorial wink.
"Hey, maybe we should try that here, huh?"

"But you've never seen anything yourself?  Or know anyone here who has?"
Mulder had asked.

"Not a soul," Hutchinson had replied.  "Just as well.  Last thing we need is
a bunch of tabloid reporters running around."  

That had closed the subject, until now, but Dave didn't seem inclined to rub
it in.  He stood up with a yawn.  "You folks can take a walk if you like.
We usually have a drink just before bed, if you want to join us."

Mulder followed Hutchinson's example and stood.  "I'd like that."

****

>From an unmarked diary
June 27, 1999


The day has come.  I watched the sun rise from my window this morning.  My
last sunrise.  I am strangely calm, unafraid. 

I did not dream of you last night, although I had hoped to.  Still, I feel
you near.  

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 26, 1998


The night was tinged with a slight chill.  Crickets buzzed under the starlit
sky, and moths beat at the windows of the house.  Scully sat on the grass
next to Mulder and yawned.

"Are you sorry we came out here?" he asked.

She gazed at him. In the dark his face was unreadable.  "No."

"Neither am I."  He fell silent, head tipped back to stare at the stars.
She waited, and finally he spoke.  "Scully, my sister told me she doesn't
want to see me anymore."

The words were finally out, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"Mulder, I'm sorry."

He turned, looked at her.  "I--"

She shook her head.  "Don't."  She scooted closer to him, put an arm around
him, felt him do the same for her.  Side by side, touching, they stared at
the stars.

****

>From an unmarked diary
June 27, 1999


9:45.  Almost time.  Christabel will be up here soon, taking me with her.
We are meeting Dave at the town square.  

It was drugged, you know.  Our brandy.  I suppose a part of me knew it that
morning, but I was too shocked, too numb to think clearly.  Would they have
targeted us if we hadn't asked any questions, if we had just been passing
through?

I will never know, unless you already know the answers from where you are.
Soon enough I will know them, too.

A knock on the door.  Must go.  I am coming to you.

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 27, 1998


Hands roughly pulled her to her feet, and she swayed, brain moving
sluggishly.  "Carry her," someone said, and she felt herself lifted, then
she was spinning back into the haze.

Later. "Step down," a voice in her ear commanded.  She blinked, forced her
eyes open, cringing under the assault of the sun.

"What..."  Her mouth was too dry to finish the question, and she allowed
Christabel Hutchinson to lead her by the arm.  She stumbled along, noticing
that a crowd had gathered, that eyes followed her with curiosity.

At the edge of the group Christabel stopped, pulling Scully to a halt
beside her.  "Stand here and listen," she ordered.

Alarms were going off in her head.  Something...not right.  All these
people.  Mulder. Where was Mulder?

Two men came through the crowd, and as the people parted, she saw Mulder.
He stood on the other side of the gathering, next to Dave Hutchinson.  He
looked dazed, and he leaned against the man beside him.

"Hello, Bobby," someone behind her said, then the men walked into the
clearing created by the circle of people.  One of them carried a
three-legged stool, and she saw with no real surprise that it was Scott
Graves.  Another man who looked exactly like Christabel held an ancient,
battered black box.  Bobby Martin, Scully surmised, Christabel's brother.

"Well, then," Bobby Martin started.  "I guess by now you've all heard that
today is a special day for us.  A special lottery."

Lottery?  The word made no impression on her muddled brain.  Scully closed
her eyes, tried to collect her thoughts.  Something was not right here...

When she dared to open her eyes, Scott Graves was holding up two pieces of
paper, tightly folded into squares.  Bobby Martin announced, "We will hold
our usual lottery this afternoon, after a luncheon, which Joan Overdyke and
Rachel Watson have been kind enough to prepare for us."  He turned and
smiled at two ladies somewhere to Scully's right.  

"Now, then, let's get this started, shall we?"  

Scott Graves dropped the two pieces of paper into the black box, and a small
rustling sound escaped the assembled crowd. 

"What is it?" Scully tried to ask, but her tongue seemed too thick, too big
for her mouth, and speech was difficult.

Carrying the box, Martin stepped up to her.  He held it out, and she gazed
at him blankly.  Christabel poked her in the ribs.  "Take a paper," she hissed.

She reached into the box and pulled out one of the tightly folded squares of
paper.  As she stared at it, it doubled, then tripled, and she had to close
her eyes to keep from growing dizzy.

When she opened them, Mulder was holding a piece of paper, too, frowning at
it as if he'd never seen such a thing before.

Bobby Martin stepped back, out of the cleared circle.  "Go on, now, folks.
Open your papers."

She could think of no reason not to, and Scully did so.  She didn't notice
Christabel sidestepping away from her, or the people who had just stood on
either side of her.

The paper was blank.

"It's him!" Dave Hutchinson snatched the paper from Mulder, holding it up
for all to see.  In the center of the white square was a heavily colored
black dot.

A louder wave of sound swept through the crowd, and Christabel jerked
Scully's elbow, pulling her back.  Dave pushed Mulder forward, and he
staggered, nearly falling, then regaining his balance.  

Across the circle, his eyes met Scully's and they were full of a dismayed
confusion.  "Scully?"  He spoke hesitantly.

The first rock flew through the air and struck him squarely on the cheek,
driving Mulder to his knees.  Blood sprayed through the air in a brilliant
arc. Half a dozen more rocks thudded into him at once, thrown from various
points in the crowd.  

"No..." She could only make a small whimpering noise, and when she tried to
lunge forward hands pulled her back.  "No!"

In the center of the clearing Mulder struggled to his feet and was instantly
pummeled by a dozen stones from all directions.  He went down again, without
a sound.

"No!"  The scream finally broke loose from her throat.  "Mulder!"  

The crowd surged forward, then they were on him.

****

Martinville, Nebraska
June 27, 1999

She stood calmly beside Christabel.  Dave had been chosen to help this year,
and he stood with Scott Graves beside the three-legged stool while Bobby
Martin held the box out to the men who approached.  The pile of rocks off to
the left loomed in her vision, and she tried not to look at it, tried not to
show her impatience.

The last man drew, and Martin said, "All right, fellows."

That low murmur swept through the crowd, and she watched Dave as he opened
his paper, then paled.  "It's me," he said softly, "my household draws next."

Christabel shot her a sharp look, but she had eyes only for the box.  The
papers that the townspeople had drawn from were dumped out, but for the one
with the black mark, and two new blank ones:  One for each member of the
Hutchinson household.

Dave drew first, then Christabel.  She watched them, then stepped forward.
With clear eyes she drew a paper.  Through the layers of folded paper, the
black spot burned her palm.

When the papers were unfolded she held hers up without a word, letting them
see it was her, that she had the mark.  Bobby Martin took it from her, and
she thanked him with her eyes.

On her own she walked into the clearing and waited.  The crowd dissipated in
order to gather the stones, then came together raggedly.

The first rock hit her in the stomach, doubling her over and she went to her
knees.  Several more struck her back, her arms, her face.  Instinctively she
ducked her head from the blows.

Somehow she ended up on the ground, and then the stones seemed to come less
frequently.  She opened her eyes, and saw him on the edge of the crowd, a
smile on his face.

Her answering smile was smashed in, and then she rose up and walked toward him.

****

FINIS

Author's Notes:  Anybody who has read "The Lottery" knows the village does
not have a name, so I took the liberty of naming it after one of the
prominent characters of the original story.   Some of the characters in this
story are from that original, others are made up, such as Christabel.

All feedback is gratefully accepted at rrusnak@Lconn.com





******

"Never underestimate the power of human stupidity"
        --Robert Heinlein

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