TITLE: Fearsome Engine (3/?) AUTHOR: Elanor G EMAIL: ElanorG@yahoo.com URL: http://www.yahoo.com/ElanorG RATING: R for violence, gore, language, and maybe a dab of sex CATEGORY/SPOILERS: Case file. Mytharc. Set seventh season, after X-Cops. DISCLAIMER: The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter and Fox. The title is "inspired" by the title of a novel by Iain Banks. Think of it as an homage. XxXxXXxXxXXxXxX It was a neighborhood of simple one-story houses - water- stained stucco and barbed wire, spray-painted gang tags on walls and junker cars parked on easements. Occasionally there was a Mercedes or Land Rover parked in a driveway, ostentatiously out of place. Small groups of young men waited on corners or front lawns, giving the car hard stares as it passed. "Here it is," said Scully. Mulder pulled in front of the Izquierdo house. It didn't look much different than the houses around it, except for the ring of yellow police tape. It backed onto a murky tree- lined canal. The trees stood black against the sunset, the slate-blue sky rimmed with orange. "Let's go," he said. He opened the door and the lingering cool air from the air conditioned car evaporated in the steamy evening. As they went up the sidewalk they heard a shrill voice. "You the police?" Mulder and Scully turned to see a short, round woman standing in the yard of the house next door. Her arms were folded and she regarded them both with deep suspicion. "Ma'am, we're federal agents," Scully said. They both displayed their badges. "Federal agents, huh. I'd like to know why it took y'all so long. Those boys got people in and out that house all day and all night. Up to no good." She shook her head. "And now one of those boys is dead. My lord." Mulder walked up to the chain link fence that separated them. "Were you here that night, Mrs...?" "*Miss* Devon," she said. Her look of suspicion did not fade but she seemed inclined to talk. "This ain't my house. I look after Mr. Gayoso. He's old and he ain't right in the head. His daughter pays me to look after him while she's at work. *Some* people in this neighborhood still *work,*" she added pointedly. "Miss Devon, did you see or hear anything unusual the night Roberto was killed?" asked Scully. "Well, midnight I was in the kitchen makin' a cup of coffee when I heard this *screamin'* like you wouldn't believe. I know it was 12:01 exactly 'cause it said so on the clock on the microwave." Miss Devon smoothed her cotton housecoat. "Those boys next door usually have their damn TV up so loud I can't hear a thing. But those screams were louder than the TV, loaded than the air conditioner. I looked out the blinds but didn't see a soul. I didn't look out again until I heard the police. I was too scared. That screaming sounded like…like…well, I don't what it sounded like." She reached in her pocket for a cigarette. "Made my blood run cold." "Let's go back a bit," suggested Mulder. "You say a lot of people went in and out of that house. Who did you see at the house earlier that evening, besides the Izquierdo brothers?" Miss Devon lit her cigarette and took a drag. "Tell the truth, that day was quieter than usual. Besides the boys, I only seen one man come in and out, near seven o'clock. Dirty-lookin' white man with long hair and a beard. I never seen him before. I didn't like his looks, I can tell you that right now." She gestured with her cigarette. "His eyes were shiny, I could see 'em from a long way away. He was only there about fifteen minutes. Think he walked here, I didn't see no car. After he left, the boys went out and come back with pizza. They won't even deliver pizza around here, you know." Scully gave Mulder a swift look, then looked back at Miss Devon. "Did you mention this man to the police?" she asked. "They never asked. Like usual, you know. They don't take nothin' seriously." She took another drag on her cigarette and looked shrewdly from Scully to Mulder. "That why you here? 'Cause the police ain't doin' their job?" "We're conducting our own investigation," said Mulder diplomatically. He handed Miss Devon one of his cards. "Fox Mulder," she read, studying the card with a raised eyebrow. "Fox? This your real name?" "Miss Devon, if you think of anything else that could be relevant, you can reach me at the mobile number any time." "I just got one question for you, Agent Fox," Miss Devon said, glaring up at Mulder. "You two gonna catch who did this?" "That's the idea," said Mulder. "Thanks for your time, Miss Devon," said Scully. "We'll be in touch." They headed toward the house, but turned when they heard Miss Devon calling after them. "You have to understand, this was a nice neighborhood once but now it's gone to hell. You don't know what it's like to live scared all the time. We all scared around here." Her voice trailed off, as if she was talking to herself. She went back inside the house, the door slamming after her. Mulder watched her for a few moments, lost in thought. Then he shook his head and followed Scully into the Izquierdo house. Inside was chaos. "Looks like a hurricane hit this place," said Scully, gingerly picking her way through the wreckage. The living was shabby and dirty, the shredded furniture cheap and tacky. But the ruined electronics on the floor had probably cost more than the house itself. The air conditioner had been turned off and the air was heavy and stifling. "Windows are locked on the inside," Scully noted as she moved around the room. "And check out these bars." Mulder tested them, pulling at them with considerable strength. But they were bolted firmly onto the window frames and would not budge. "Always a good idea when you keep lots of cash and drugs on hand," he said. "And if you have a fancy TV. Look at all this stuff." Mulder moved over to the remains of the home theater system while Scully studied blood stains on the floor. Poking through the wreckage he found a videotape with "COPS" and a date scrawled on the label. He waved it at Scully. "Hey, I think this one is ours." Scully rolled her eyes and he grinned. After further rummaging he fished out an empty DVD case - Brian de Palma's Scarface, starring Al Pacino. Mulder held it up. "'First you get the drugs, then you get the money, *then* you get the women,'" he quoted in his best raspy Pacino imitation. "I'm a little frightened that you know that, Mulder." "Come on, Scully, this is a classic piece of 1980s cinema," he protested. He smiled at the lurid packaging. "Can you believe Oliver Stone wrote this?" "Yes, actually," murmured Scully. She followed the bloody tracks down the short hallway, Mulder close behind. In the bedroom they found a black pool of dried blood. A mattress on the floor had been shredded and a dresser was tipped over. Tattered posters of cars and naked women still clung to the walls. Scully walked around the edges of the room, a pinched, annoyed expression on her face.. "Inconclusive results from the print team - too many people in and out. Locked windows and doors. No witnesses. Gee, a lot to go on here." "That's part of the charm." I'd be interested to know more about this dirty bearded guy Miss Devon saw." "So would I." Scully knelt on the floor, looking from blood-stained walls to the blood-stained floor. She shook her head. "What the hell happened here, Mulder?" As if in answer a thin scream came from outside. Mulder and Scully gave each other a look, then raced to the front door. A very thin old man stood on the sidewalk, waving a cane and shrieking in Spanish. Miss Devon was trying without success to lead him back into the house. A Hialeah police car had pulled up to the curb behind Mulder's rental. Fernandez and O'Brien were stepping out and carefully approaching the old man. "Mr. Gayoso, now you get back inside," said Miss Devon. "Okay, sir, calma te," said O'Brien. "Esta de bajo de la cama," screamed Mr. Gayoso, pointing at the house. "Ayuda me!" "Quien esta de bajo de la cama, señor?" asked Fernandez in soothing tones. "Fidel! Fidel Castro esta de bajo de la cama! Me quiere matar!" At this O'Brien rolled his eyes. "What? What did he see?" asked Mulder. Fernandez scratched his head, trying to hide a smile. "Um, well, Agent Mulder, this gentleman says Fidel Castro is hiding under his bed." "I told you he ain't right in the head," said Miss Devon. She took Mr. Gayoso's arm but the old man pulled away with surprising strength, cane swinging wildly. He turned toward Mulder and Scully. "I am not crazy," Mr. Gayoso said in thickly accented English, his thin chest heaving. His dark eyes shone but Mulder could detect no madness in them. "Fidel Castro is under my bed. He is come to kill me." "Sir, why does Fidel Castro want to kill you?" asked Scully gently. "He want to see me and my family destroy because we speak against him. He kill my brother in Cuba in 1961. He send my other brother to jail in 1962 and kill him too. He take our home, he take everything." The old man's voice quavered. "I escape Cuba but always he follow me. He send many spy here, and now he finally is come to kill me himself. Always I am afraid. He is a devil." Curious neighbors were beginning to come out onto lawns and sidewalks, peering out of half- opened doors and drawn blinds. "Mr. Gayoso, ain't no one under the bed. Now you come on." Miss Devon tried again to take his arm but the old man spun away. Fernandez had to duck away from his swinging cane. "You know Fidel Castro has spy here!" Mr. Gayoso yelled to the growing crowd. "You know this! Ay, mi hermanos. Muertos, todos muertos." He began to weep. A few laughed, but some older people exchanged uneasy looks. "He's right!" someone yelled. "Jesus," muttered O'Brien. "Say anything about Fidel Castro and people go batshit." "Señor, por favor," said Fernandez. After more gentle coaxing in Spanish, Mr. Gayoso allowed Miss Devon and Fernandez to lead him back to the house. O'Brien turned toward the small crowd. "Okay, everyone! Eso nada aqui. Nothing more to see here," the big cop said in a booming voice. People began to drift away. "Fidel Castro just ain't here tonight. Let's all get back to what we were doing." He shook his head. "People always gotta see the car crash, don't they?" he said quietly to Mulder and Scully. "They'll come out to see what happened but if you come back later and actually ask what they saw, you get a lot of cases of amnesia." "They're afraid," said Mulder simply. "Oh, give me a fucking break. I know they're afraid. I'm afraid too, just working around here." O'Brien shook his head again, a sore spot apparently touched. "People around here don't trust cops, but it's a two-way street, you know? Fernandez and I came back here to canvas the neighborhood, see if we could get any more information, but I don't think we'll get much. You get tired of it." "Detective O'Brien, do you have a record of who visited the Izquierdo house?" asked Scully. "Sure we do. I can show you our surveillance logs if you want. We have photos too." "The evening Roberto was killed, did a bearded man visit the house?" "Okay sir, ma'am, let's move along!" bellowed O'Brien. Some last stragglers walked away. He rubbed his face with thick hands and turned back to Scully. "Yeah, he was a new one. Scruffy. We haven't identified him yet. How do you know about him?" "Miss Devon." "Figures. That one sees a lot but keeps her mouth shut until it suits her." Fernandez came back out of the house to rejoin O'Brien, Mulder, and Scully. "Well, there's nothing under that bed but a bunch of old newspapers," he said. "I said we'd check out the area around the house. But I don't think the Bearded One's been around here tonight." "I wonder," Mulder said. "Oh, come on, Agent Mulder. Fidel Castro conspiracy theories come a dime a dozen around here." Fernandez smiled and shrugged. "You just can't take it seriously." "Probably not," said Mulder, smiling back. "Scully and I'll help you check things out." He touched her shoulder, ignoring her raised eyebrow. He had to get away so he could think, and he always thought better when he could talk to Scully alone. XxXxXxXxXx The sun was long gone but the streetlamps and porch lights from the surrounding city turned the sky bright, making it easy for Scully and Mulder to check out the overgrown space behind the Izquierdo house. Night sounds came from the canal - peeping frogs, chirping insects, small splashes. Their feet sank in the spongy Bermuda grass. "Hey Scully," said Mulder. "Is any of this reminding you of something?" She had wondered when this was going to come up. With a sigh Scully shone the flashlight up so she could get a good look at his face. "You think this is like the debacle in Los Angeles." "Think about it. Gayoso saw the man he fears and hates most in the world. The Izquierdo brothers were attacked by a monster tailor-made to fit their childhood nightmares. " "Mulder, we don't know who or what attacked them," said Scully, but he pressed on. "Compare this to everything we saw in LA, Scully. Deputy Wetzel was attacked by his Wasp Man, another childhood monster. The pathologist died from the Hanta virus, the very disease that terrified her. And think about how similar the neighborhoods are. You have people living in fear from poverty and crime, mixed with a healthy dose of paranoia. It all adds up to a fertile hunting ground." "You're saying this is another monster that somehow feeds on fear?" Mulder shook his head. "I stop short of calling it a 'monster' for now. But you have to see the emergence of a similar pattern." "A chupacabra attack and a Fidel Castro sighting do not make a pattern. Besides, it's not a full moon." "Maybe the moon doesn't have anything to do with it. Maybe that was just a coincidence." Scully sighed again. "And even if this *is* a pattern, there are explanations that don't involve the paranormal." By now they had stopped even pretending to search the undergrowth. Mulder folded his arms. "I'm all ears." Scully didn't blink. "Mass hallucination, chemically induced by environmental factors. Or by deliberate infection." "You're countering my monster theory with a conspiracy theory?" said Mulder, pleased disbelief spreading over his face. "Oh, Scully, this conversation has suddenly become distinctly erotic." "Mulder, for Christ's - " They were interrupted by another scream - full-throated, deep, thick with terror. Mulder sprinted toward the sound, Scully behind him. The sound came from behind the house, from the tangled vegetation on the edge of the canal. They found O'Brien laying on the grass, writhing in pain. "Oh God," he screamed. "Get 'em off oh please God get 'em off me!" Fernandez knelt over him, his hand on his partner's forehead. "I'm a medical doctor," Scully said, kneeling down and feeling for O'Brien's pulse. "What happened?" Fernandez stood up and backed away, looking at Scully with bewilderment. "I don't know. We were checking out the area around the house. I wasn't more than seven feet away from him when he went crazy, screaming and shit like something was crawling on him. I got to him and he was already on the ground." "Oh my God it fucking HURTS," wailed O'Brien. Mulder was already on the phone, calling for backup and an ambulance. Scully assessed O'Brien's condition. His pulse was thready, his breathing difficult. His ruddy face had turned an even brighter red and he was in obvious pain. But she could see no injury. What the hell was this? "Detective O'Brien, can you tell me what happened?" He clenched his teeth. "Shoe buttons. Looked down and the little motherfuckers were crawling on my arms. Shoe buttons. Oh God." "Shoe buttons? What's he talking about? What the fuck happened to him?" asked Fernandez. Scully took one sunburned arm and turned it over. The paler skin underneath was punctured with tiny, ugly red wounds, turning purple around the edges even as she watched. O'Brien howled again in fresh agony, his body stiffening. Scully placed her hand on his abdomen - the muscles were incredibly rigid. The lymph nodes on his neck were hard and swollen. The facts clicked together neatly in her mind. "Detective O'Brien, it was spiders, right?" She held his chin in her hand to get his attention. "Black widow spiders?" O'Brien nodded. His face was a puffy, heavy-lidded, sweat- slicked mask. "All over me. My gramma called 'em shoe buttons. It really fucking hurts." His body jerked and doubled up. Convulsions, thought Scully grimly. Textbook case of lactrodectism. "This is from a spider bite?" asked Mulder, his tone incredulous. He knelt next to her. "Multiple spider bites. Black widow venom is incredibly toxic and he's been bitten dozens of times." "Dozens of black widow spiders?" Mulder looked down uneasily, as if he expected to see a horde crawling among the hairs on his own forearms. "He has all the classic symptoms but they should normally take hours to progress. I don't understand this. It must be due to the sheer number of bites." "Shoe buttons," said Fernandez, running his hands through his hair. "I never heard that one before. I don't believe it." Scully kept her attention on O'Brien - his face and neck were swelling dramatically. But Mulder gave the young cop a sharp look. "What do you mean you don't believe it?" "I mean that it's just really fucking ironic. O'Brien hates spiders, especially black widows. He, uh, grew up on a farm, comes from one of these old Florida redneck families. When he was a little kid he saw a cousin die from a black widow bite. It was always funny, this big tough guy terrified of spiders." "Scully, did you hear that?" But Scully only half heard. O'Brien's face and neck continued to swell. His breath came in gasps. "Can't...can't," he whispered. "He's having some kind of allergic reaction on top of everything else," Scully said. "His throat is swelling shut. He can't breathe. Where the hell is the ambulance?" "Shit. Probably stuck in traffic," said Fernandez. He looked shaken and sick, angry at his own helplessness. "Of all the fucking things. Spider bites. Can't you help him?" "If this keeps up he'll suffocate." Her eyes met Mulder's. "I may have to perform a tracheotomy," she said calmly. Mulder swallowed but he nodded firmly. "What can we do to help?" Scully felt in her pocket for her small knife. "Hold him down." XxXxXxXxXx End Part 3