TANGIBLE 2:  SUMMER
by Blueswirl & Meredith

Blueswirl's Note:   Back in May I posted a story called "Tangible".  It was a
post-apocalyptic story  inspired by a certain "What if" question that kept
running through my mind.  That very same week, Meredith posted a story called "A
Show Of Strength" that was also post-apocalyptic in nature, and I read it,
spellbound, in one sitting.  I thought her story was so brilliant that I wrote
her and basically fell on my knees at her feet begging for an ounce of her
talent.  She refused to give me any, but nonetheless a cyber-friendship was
born.  :)  Neither of us was quite ready to give up hanging out in the
post-apocalyptic zone, and when I proposed the idea of collaborating on a sequel
to "Tangible", I was thrilled when Meredith agreed.  [I'm no fool.  If she won't
give me her talent, I'll just ride on her coattails.  ;)  ]   In all
seriousness, this is the first time I've ever co-authored a story, and I have to
say that it's been one of the best writing experiences I've ever had.  I'm
really lucky to have had such a terrific partner, and I hope you enjoy reading
the results as much as I enjoyed the process.   :)

Meredith's Note:  Blue is once again being *ridiculously* modest. The
coincidence of both of us releasing post-Colonization fics the same week was
simply kismet -- I was blown away and captivated by her story, and we began a
suitably mushy admiration-fest via e-mail. :-) Not only did the endless
possibilities of the "Tangible" universe capture my imagination, I was also
thrilled to see one of my favorite authors back in the writing game
-- her then-unfinished "Chiaroscuro" was one of the first fanfic stories I ever
fell in love with. When Blue asked if I wanted to play along on a sequel to
"Tangible," I nearly fell out of my chair with excitement. Working with such an
innovative, creative, and talented writer has been (and will continue to be...
hint hint) one of the most rewarding experiences I've had writing fanfic.

From both of us:  You may want to read "Tangible" before plunging into this
sequel.  It's available on Chronicle X and on Blueswirl's website, htt
p://blueswirlscrashpad.simplenet.com.

Title:   TANGIBLE 2:  SUMMER

Author:   Blueswirl [blueswirl@aol.com] & Meredith [meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com]

Classification:   T,R,A, Alternate Universe
Rating:   NC-17
Keyword:   Mulder/Scully
Spoilers:   5th Season

Summary:  A sequel to Blueswirl's "Tangible."  Second part of a post-colo
nization serial.

Distribution:  Do not archive at Gossamer.  Anywhere else, please ask one of the
authors for permission first -- and please keep our names attached!

Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead:  the characters of Fox
Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013
Prods. and Fox Inc. and we're using them for this story
without permission.  So sue us.

Feedback:   If the mood hits -- we'd love it at
Blueswirl@aol.com and Meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.

TANGIBLE 2:  SUMMER  (1/4)
by Blueswirl & Meredith
11/1/98

"You know, this would go much faster with two of us."

I remain standing where I am, halfway down the rough trail that leads from the
ridge to the river, my arms clutching the plastic water bottles that I need to
fill.

Caught in the act.

A relentless, driving voice in my head nags at me, tells me that I'm wasting
time.  Yet I can't seem to will my legs to move.  The hot Indian summer sun
burns through my tee shirt.  I'm drenched in sweat, my mouth is dry.

And all I can do is stand and stare.

It's hard work, this journey, made all the harder by the surprisingly warm
weather we've had lately.

True as that may be, though, it's not exhaustion that's made my knees suddenly
weak.

"Mulder?"  The corners of her lips lift in the semblance of a grin, one perfect
copper eyebrow raised in a signature gesture.  "Are you just going to stand
there?"

Yes, I think.  I am going to stand here forever.

She holds a pair of dripping wet jeans in her hands;  judging by the length of
them, they're mine, not hers.  She shakes her head at my lack of response and
turns away from me, back to her work.  She wrings water out of the denim,
twisting the rough fabric in her tiny, capable hands.

She is standing on the riverbank, her feet invisible beneath the water that
swirls around her ankles.  The sun is beating down on her too, illuminating the
thick red hair spilling over her shoulders with fiery streaks of gold.  Maybe
it's the intense heat, maybe it's just the desire to get all the laundry done,
but something has inspired her to strip down to just her tank top and underwear.

Damn.

I watch, my pulse pounding in my ears, as she bends at the waist, all but
ignoring me now, and dips the jeans in the running current of river water.  She
crouches down, resting her elbows on her knees for balance.  Her arms move
deliberately, rhythmically.

Rinse, scrub, rinse.

I can't see her face at all now, her hair swinging forward like a heavy drape
designed to block her cheeks from the heat of the sun and the intensity of my
gaze.  I stare fixedly at the smooth skin on the back of her neck, at the fine
ridge of her spine, and I feel the familiar ache begin in my groin.

Rinse, scrub, rinse.

I never knew that washing clothes could be so erotic.

My eyes focus on her lean, shapely legs as she stands once more, her hands again
twisting the dark blue fabric until all of the excess water has trickled back
into the river.  I watch the play of muscles in her arms she reaches up to lay
the jeans atop a grouping of rocks, next to other clothes draped there to dry in
the heat of the sun.

God.  I could probably cut glass right now with my dick.  The jeans I'm wearing
suddenly feel like they're going to cut off my circulation.   If there was ever
a time that I needed a cold shower, it's now.

She sweeps a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she contemplates the pile of
clothes that remain on the bank beside her, and then turns to raise her eyes to
mine.

"Showtime's over, Mulder." Her words are stern but her expression is coy.
"Either fill those bottles or get over here and help me.  We've got a lot of
stuff to wash."

"Yes."  All of a sudden, I find myself able to move, and I lay the bottles on
the ground at my feet.  "Yes, we do."

Maybe it's the glint of humor in my eyes that she catches.  Maybe it's the
mischievous smile that I can't quite hide that alerts her to my thoughts.  Maybe
it's just the fact that she knows me too damn well.

Whatever it is that tips her off, before I've taken a single step she's already
begun to back away.  By the time I reach the riverbank she's started to run, her
bare feet churning against the sandy shoal.  The pile of clothes is left
abandoned as I chase her along the shore.

The head start she got doesn't end up helping her at all; the basic truth of the
matter is that I'm a lot taller than she is, and my stride is longer than hers.
I catch her with little effort and scoop her up, my arms around her waist,
lifting her up and off the ground.

"Mulder!"  My name escapes her lips as a squeal, punctuated by a laugh as my
hands slide across the bit of pale skin exposed between her tank and her
panties.  "Let go!   Put me down!"

"Sorry, Scully," I tell her, doing my best to hold onto her wiggling, squirming
body.  "But when you're right, you're right.  We've got a lot of stuff to wash."

"Mulder!"

She uses my name as a protest, now, as I haul her up and over my shoulder like a
particularly recalcitrant sack of potatoes.  Her legs flail violently, her
fisted hands pound my lower back as she dangles in mid-air.

"Mulder, don't you *dare*!"

That little voice inside my head tells me that I'm acting like a fool.  That I'm
misbehaving in ways that could get us both into a lot of trouble.  But right now
I just don't care.

Right now, she and I are all that matter.  I'm not focused on danger, or
consequences, or anything else beyond the smooth curve of her panty-covered ass
hovering at the edge of my vision.

She is my everything.  Nothing else is worth a damn.

So I ignore the relentlessly grim little voice that's telling me to get serious,
and instead I laugh as I carry her down to the river's edge.

"Mulder, I'm warning you....."

I wade out into the rushing river, heedless of the fact that I'm still wearing
my shoes.  What the hell, they'll dry eventually.  I keep going until I'm in up
to my knees.  The water is cold even through my jeans, but it's hot enough
outside that it feels refreshing.  She's really fighting now, clawing at my
waistband with both hands, her knees banging against my chest.  She pokes her
fingers at my ribs, sharp little jabs designed to disarm me, but her plan fails.
I'm not nearly as ticklish as she is.

"I swear, Mulder, you'd better put me down or you're a dead man!"

Maybe so, but as long as she keeps laughing the way she is now, little br
eathless chuckles that slip out between her words, I'll die happy.

"Oh," I assure her, "I'm definitely going to put you down.  Don't worry about
that."

Another laugh escapes me as I allow her to slide from my arms and gently drop
into the water.  It's deep enough that she's completely submerged for a fraction
of a second and then she's up, standing in water that reaches her thighs,
sputtering and spitting.

"God!"  She sweeps her now-drenched mop of hair out of her face.  She fixes me
with an angry stare, but I can see a wicked sparkle in her eyes.  "You're in for
it now."

I laugh again.  I can't help it.  I'm a bastard.  A lucky one, all things
considered, but a bastard nonetheless.

"Nice shirt, Scully," I declare, my eyes fixed on the way her taut nipples press
against the soaked cotton of her tank top.  "I think that's a look for you."

Her gaze follows the path of my eyes and she fights to hold back a smile. "Fuck
you," she says, and pushes me hard, both hands flat against my chest.  She
catches me off guard and I go down and when my head breaks the surface once more
I'm as wet as she is.

"Was that...."  I have to catch my breath.  "Was that an invitation, Scully?"

She reaches out a hand to pull me up and the answer is clear in the brightness
of her eyes.  I take full advantage, leaning forward to join my mouth to hers.
Her lips part as soon as they make contact with mine, and a little moan escapes
her as I slip my tongue inside.

We stand there in the water just kissing for what seems like forever.  The
softness of her mouth holds me in thrall.   I twine my hands in the damp length
of her hair, cradling her head, angling her mouth this way and that.  She wraps
her arms around my back, holding me tight.  The water swirls around us and the
sun pounds down on us and her tongue duels with mine.

It's Scully who breaks off the kiss, pulling back enough to allow her hands to
find the buttons on the fly of my jeans.  She yanks them open one at a time and
then shoves the jeans down my thighs, tugging the boxers I wear beneath along
for the ride.  Her hand brushes against my erection, as though to assure herself
that the cold hasn't dampened any of my ardor.

Just for the record, it hasn't.

Then I'm standing like a fool with my clothes gathered around my knees, shaking
in the icy water as I watch her slide off her panties.  She takes them off all
the way and casts them aside, and I see them bob to the surface and float off
towards shore.

She turns and wades farther out, and I stare transfixed as the perfect round
globes of her ass disappear beneath the surface.   It's not until the water
covers her past her waist that she faces me, a slow smile spreading over her
face as she beckons me forward with a sexy little wave of her hand.

I don't hesitate, kicking off my shoes and socks and tossing them over my
shoulder in the direction of the shore.  My tangled jeans and boxers quickly
follow and I add my tee shirt to the pile.  Then I'm wading towards her, wearing
nothing but a grin of my own.

When I reach her I stop and we do nothing but drink each other in for a long,
long moment.  Scully doesn't really tan;  she burns, and then she freckles.  I
want to taste each and every one of the freckles on her cheeks and shoulders.  I
want to yank off that tank top and lick the nipples that taunt me through the
cotton.  I want to run my tongue over every salty-sweet inch of her skin.

All thought vanishes as she loops her arms around my neck.  Buoyed by the water,
her legs slide up and wrap around my waist.  Instinctively my arms slip behind
her back, holding her up as she straddles me, her lips finding mine once again.
My dick brushes against the curve of her ass as I cradle her against me.

"Scully....."  Her name is nothing more than a sigh that is swallowed as she
kisses me hungrily.   I respond by shifting my hold on her to allow one hand to
drop beneath the surface of the water.  My fingers glide up along the inside of
her thigh to the nest of curls between her legs.  I caress her, gently at first
and then harder as she rocks in my arms.

I slide one finger inside her and then another.  Her sticky wetness mixes with
the water in a warm, sultry combination.  She moans as I touch her, her eyes
locked to mine as she allows me to probe her depths.  My thumb finds her clit
and I rub her there, and she tilts her head, arching her back.  She whimpers,
low and soft, and I feel a little ripple of pleasure course through her body.

I can't wait any longer and so I reluctantly pull my hand away.  Shifting my
hold on her slightly I raise her up and then slowly lower her down onto my
shaft.  A harsh groan escapes my lips as I penetrate her, as she takes me deep
inside.

Scully sighs softly as her arms tighten around my neck.  She closes her eyes and
rests her cheek against mine, strands of her wet hair tickling my skin, her
gentle puffs of breath blowing in my ear.

I think I could quite happily stand here, holding her like this, for an e
ternity.

She opens her eyes and brings one of her hands around to my face and trails
gentle fingers from my forehead down to my chin.  Once, twice, three times, as a
slow dreamy smile blooms on her face.

Her tender touches remind me that as sated as I am, there are other things I
want to be doing.  I slip my hand between our bodies and run my fingers over the
soggy tank top that clings to her chest like a second skin.  Scully leans back
slightly, giving me better access, and I brush my fingers across her nipples.
She sucks in a whistle of air at my touch, so I raise the stakes by capturing
one of the round nubbins between my fingers and squeezing it hard.

"Mulder.....God...."

She's squirming in my arms again and every little motion of her body shoots a
wave of pleasure through me.  And amazingly enough I know a way to make it
better for both of us.  I drop my hand back down to her waist, holding her
firmly against me.  "Take it off," I whisper, indicating her tank top with a
jerk of my head.

She obliges me, bringing her hands down to grasp the hem.  The bare skin of her
arms brushes against my chest and I hear myself groan.  She pulls the top up and
over her head agonizingly slowly and I watch as each new inch of skin is
revealed.  My red-haired mermaid, giving me an impromptu strip tease.

When she's finished, she tosses the scrap of fabric carelessly into the water
that eddies around us and her eyes meet mine again.  Her breathing is faster
now, her cheeks flushed with a wanton desire that makes my cock ache despite the
fact that I'm already buried deep inside her.

It's her eyes that hold me captive, that draw me to her like a moth to a flame.
They are luminous, fathomless pools that hold the secrets of the universe within
them.  And right now they are fixed on me, waiting.

I don't make her wait for very long.

Lowering my head, I place a soft kiss on her mouth then allow my lips to trail
down her neck.  She rests her hands on my arms and leans back, trusting me to
hold her steady.  I'm doing my best, but I'm shaking with need and I'm thankful
that the water is also doing its part to keep her afloat.

I suckle one nipple and then the other and that's all I can manage because she's
quivering in my arms, her lower body grinding against mine, and suddenly I can't
focus on anything else except the place where our bodies are joined.

Her name is a cry on my lips as I pull her back into a fierce embrace.  I begin
madly pumping my hips in time with the motion of my arms as I raise her up the
length of my shaft and back down again.  Over and over, faster and faster, and
now I can't even feel the coldness of the water as it splashes against our
bodies.  I can't hear anything besides the fevered gasps we make as we fight for
air.  I can't see anything besides the ecstasy on her face as her eyes flutter
shut and she bites down hard on her lower lip.

I can't focus on anything but her because I'm burning up inside.

Her arms are clutching my back, her nails digging into the skin, and I don't
care, don't care, don't care.   Her thighs tighten around my waist and I know
that she's close, so close, and somehow I manage to slide one hand between our
joined bodies and find that tiny group of nerves that never fails to push her
over the edge.  My fingers barely graze her before she begins to spasm, her body
shaking in my arms as little choking sobs slip from her lips.

She's clenching me deep inside, her muscles milking me and I can't hold on any
longer so I let myself go, let myself ride the wave until I finally crash,
exploding deep within her.

"Mulder...."

She murmurs my name softly, her head now resting on my shoulder, her arms
dangling loosely around my back.  Somehow I manage to get us both back to shore,
and it's not until then that I slip out of her, setting her gently down on the
ground.

This is the last day that we'll follow the river, at least for awhile.  A
ccording to the map, the best way to proceed is inland, and the map has proved
surprisingly accurate so far.  Now doesn't seem like the time to make snap
decisions.   We decided to use this afternoon to do our laundry and replenish
our supplies, and that work still looms before us.  But for now we simply rest,
curled together naked on the shore, as the water laps against our feet and she
naps in my arms.

It is Scully who wakes first, her feline stretching jerking me out of a light
doze I hadn't realized I had fallen into. It is simultaneously a luxury and a
curse to be able to fall asleep in the middle of nowhere buck naked and not
worry about another human finding us in a compromising position.

For we are alone.  Blissfully alone.

"Mulder," Scully croons against my neck. "I've got sand in just about every
bodily crevice."

I laugh, suddenly aware of our situation. "I guess we need a bath, too."

She grins, and we hop up to take a quick plunge back in the water to wash off
the sand and wallow in the coolness once more. Donning our dry clothes, we
gather together the water bottles and wet laundry and climb the brambled path
back up to our makeshift camp at the top of a low-lying ridge above the wide,
clear river.  The location affords us a decent view of the valley, which winds
into the distance through scenic light forest and granite outcroppings.  Just
ahead, the body of water we've spent days following veers west, and we must
continue north.

I regret leaving the river.  Forever I will associate it with the first days of
freedom Scully and I have truly known in years.  With the tiny ticking bomb that
held her prisoner left scores of miles behind us, this graceful sweep of water
has been the only witness to our newfound freedom, to the beginning of our new
quest.

The quest for a new life, together.

We spread the jeans, underwear and shirts out on a wide rocky slab to dry
in the lingering sun and cache the water bottles back in the crevice underneath
the low-hanging rock formation, next to our dwindling food supply.  I don't
bother to count the cans; I know how few are left, despite the fact that we have
found a few more along the way.  The calculated risk of leaving civilization --
if you could call it that -- has involved straying further and further from
traditional supplies and trading opportunities. We are truly heading into
unknown territory, on many levels.

"Do you still want to give it a try?"

Scully's voice brings me out of my reverie. "Yeah.  Now's the time.  Most
animals come out to graze around dusk, so I think this will be our best
opportunity."

"Well then, let's go."

I pick up the rifle and a box of shells, pocketing a generous dozen in my spare
pants, a worn pair of khakis.  Scully was always a better shot, but the past few
years have reversed our talents.  The struggle for survival forced me to hone my
adequate skill into real talent, whereas Scully's natural abilities were left to
rust by her confinement.  So I shoulder the weapon as we leave our enclave and
head out into the brush.

Evening coolness increases at an inverse proportion to the waning light.  Like
so many of the days we've spent since our escape, the weather has been excellent
-- warm afternoons, comfortably chilly nights.  Long days ever decreasing in
length as we approach autumn.

It's only been recently that I've let myself notice such trivial things as good
weather.

It's only been recently that I've noticed anything of beauty in this wretched
world at all.

Except for Scully.

Her red hair reflects the dappled pattern of leaves filtered through dim
sunlight as she leads the way down a well-worn deer path. I follow her blindly,
knowing to trust her instincts.  We haven't wandered very far east of our camp,
so this is new territory.  We are silent as we hike along through the light
woods, both of us listening for the rustle of life in the underbrush.

She stops abruptly, and I notice what catches her eye quickly enough so that I
don't plow into her from behind.

"Mulder."

"I see it."

We watch in fascination. Our theories have paid off -- animal life is still
abundant, growing more common the further we go north and the further we leave
the cities behind us.

"We can't take it," I say regretfully, staring at the large, soft-brown doe
feeding in the clearing ahead of us. "We don't have any supplies to preserve the
meat."

"I know," she whispers. "But it's a good sign, nonetheless."

I squint in the dimming light. "What is it eating? Are those..."

Scully steps forward to take a closer look and steps on a twig. Its tiny crack
is enough to startle the deer, whose head whips toward us in fear.  Large brown
eyes blink once, twice, before she bolts ahead, disappearing into the green
before our eyes.

Scully is at the tree in ten large strides, looking up into its leaves.
"Apples. Mulder! They're apples." Her smile is wide and happy, showing a glint
of white teeth.  She pulls down a branch and easily plucks two yellow-red
fruits, tossing one to me as I walk toward her.

I take a greedy bite, letting the juice drip down my chin.  Heaven.  Sweet
heaven.

"We've got to pick some, Mulder, and take as many with us as we can.  Apples
store well, and these have just ripened."

I grunt in the affirmative, my mouth too full to articulate my agreement.  I
swallow the remainder of the first apple, toss the core on the ground and grab
another.  There are a half-dozen apple trees here in the clearing, heavily laden
with delicious fruit.

"Did a snake tell you these were OK to eat, Scully?  If so, I hope you informed
him that the human race has already been kicked out of paradise."

"I dunno, Mulder. It's starting to look like we've *found* paradise."

She, too, has finished her first apple and reaches up for a second.  Chewing
thoughtfully, she suddenly gets an idea.  I can tell by the glint in her eyes.

"Mulder, why don't you wander ahead a bit and try to shoot something small
enough to eat while there's still enough light.  I'll go back to the camp and
get the backpack and fill it with as many apples as I can.  It took us about 20
minutes to get here -- why don't we meet back in this clearing in about an hour?
That should give us both enough time before it gets dark."

Unreasonable doubt seizes my mind. "I don't know, Scully. I don't like se
parating."

"Nonsense, Mulder.  It's the smartest decision.  The deer track leads directly
back to camp, and it looks like it continues further east as well.  Just stay
close to the path, and we won't get separated."

I sigh audibly. "Scul-ly.... We can come back for the apples in the morning."

"Mulder."  I know that expression.  It's her I'm-trying-to-be-patient-but
-its-hard-when-you're-so-stubborn look.  "It doesn't take two people to shoot a
rifle.  This gives me something useful to do.  Let's be logical about this."

Logic. I snort.  Of course I've lost this argument.  I grin resignedly and
motion for her to head back to camp. "Fine.  But if I get eaten by a bear
because my partner has abandoned me for the temptation of apples..."

"You've got the gun, partner.  If a bear comes around the corner, use it."  She
smiles broadly as she turns to head back down the path, and I am thrown back in
memory to our playful afternoon in the river, where she gave me the same
beautiful smile.

I remind myself that it's now okay to remember, and let the warm thoughts flood
my brain.

For three years I struggled not to remember the previous day.  To rise every
morning and forget the darkness, the pain, the terror.  To ignore the profound
sense of loneliness that consumed every waking moment of my animal-like
existence.  I focused on one thought, one desperate need.

Finding Scully.

And I did.  Freeing myself to be able to gather memories again.  I tuck today
away like a precious gift, knowing I will take it out often to treasure, and
head further down the path.

Half an hour later, and I'm beginning to regret my decision.

What the hell is a forty-something pseudo-WASP former Fed doing lurking in the
woods waiting for some poor squirrel to wander by and oh-so-conveniently line
itself up in the rifle sights?  I must be out of my fucking mind.

My legs have cramped into pins-and-needles torture from being in this crouched
position.  Who the hell am I kidding?  I'm no Daniel Boone, that's for damn
sure.  I've fed myself for three years by using my wits and skills as a trader,
not by acting like some throwback to the pioneer days.  I sigh in frustration.
If some of my Oxford classmates could see me now...

But of course they can't.  Because in all likelihood, they're dead.  Or housed
in Compounds just like Scully was.  Lately I've had to remind myself that
despite our sometimes grueling situation, Scully and I are truly the lucky ones.

Jesus Christ, Mulder.  Quit being so maudlin.

A quick look toward the horizon tells me my time is running out.  This is
getting more ridiculous by the minute.  But just as I stand to try one more
location, a telltale shifting in the ferns ten feet ahead of me catches my
attention.

And then I see it.  A soft, plush brown ball of fur.  Twitching its nose while
munching on tiny sprouts.

C-R-A-C-K!

Dinner.

It's a clean shot, through the skull, which is good -- that means less wasted
meat.  He's decent sized rabbit, about a pound and a half.  I lay the rifle down
beside him, then busy myself tying his back legs together with a bit of thick
string.  Perhaps it's the rumbling in my stomach, or my brain's reminder of how
long it's been since we've had meat, but the small blood-spattered creature
actually looks appetizing.  Well, at least the possibilities are appetizing.  I
smile to myself for a minute, thinking that Scully will be pleased.

Shouldering the rifle once again, I realize I'm going to be a little late for
our rendezvous.  Funny how we can still tell time, even though we have no
watches.  But the subtle shifts of light and shadow and a bit of primal instinct
serve us as well as a Timex.  By the way the gray-blue darkness is quickly
settling over the woods, I know it's a damn good thing I'll be bringing back
Peter Cottontail here.

It takes me no time to get back to the clearing.  I scan the perimeter, looking
for my partner.  At first I think my eyes are getting worse and I'm just not
seeing her.  Then I realize she's not here.

"Scully?" There's no panic in my voice.  Not yet.

I walk the periphery quickly, hyper-aware of the silence.  I almost trip over a
few rotting apples in the dim light.

"Scully?"

Son of a bitch.  Son of a *fucking* bitch.

"Scully?"

God damn it.  I *knew* we shouldn't have separated.  Anger and fear blaze
through me, twisting together hot and white.  Why isn't she here?  All she had
to do was get the pack, come directly back here, load it up and wait for me.

Fuck.

Cool air seeps into my lungs as I stop and draw a few deep breaths.  Maybe she
made a second trip and will be back here any minute.  Maybe one of us
misunderstood the plan and she's waiting back at the camp.  Maybe my internal
clock is off and I'm not that late.  Maybe she lost track of time herself.

Maybe she never made it back here at all.

I squelch the thought furiously. In any other situation, in any other lifetime,
this would be a trivial matter that we would haggle out in a teasing argument
about ditching.

But this is no typical lifetime.

Making up my mind quickly, I jog back toward the trail leading back to camp,
hoping we'll cross paths any second.  Daylight is nearly gone now, and I move
clumsily through the woods, branches slapping me across the face, stinging my
eyes as I half-run toward home.

I promise myself I won't start to panic until I get to camp.

I refuse to consider the plethora of dangerous information screaming in my
brain.  The fact that she didn't have the knife, which was nestled in my back
pocket.  The fact that I alone had both of our weapons.  The fact that we should
have never separated in the first place.

And then, as I dimly note a gap in the treeline to the south, I instantly break
my promise.

Voices.

A man's deep rumbling, a woman's hushed whisper.

I stop short, willing my breathing to quiet, waves of protective fury and bile
rising in my throat.

Scully's voice.  Soft and oddly calming.

I slide the bundled rabbit to the ground and step silently forward, the gun
aimed directly toward the sounds.  Sweat trickles down my spine despite the
rapidly chilling night air.  I move ahead another few feet.

My eyes strain to focus in the near-dark.  I see a woman standing, looking down
at a small mass on the ground.  A tall man is next to her, the glint of a knife
blade visible in his clenched hand.

And Scully, my Scully, is down on her knees.  Her head bowed, her arms at her
sides.  Defenseless.

Coldly, I cock the rifle.

The noise startles the man, and he instinctively raises the hand that holds his
weapon.   Scully looks up as well and all I can see is the fear in her eyes.

"Put the knife down," I growl, "and back away from her.  Now."  I take a step
forward, leaving no doubt as to my intentions.

The man hesitates, his eyes darting from me down to Scully.  My finger tenses on
the trigger.  I'm in no mood for games.

"Mulder, no!"

Scully leaps to her feet, blocking my shot, and I lower the gun slightly,
stunned.  "What's going on here, Scully?  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she responds, indicating for me to put down the rifle with a wave of
her hand.  "It's their son.  He's sick.  Really sick."

It's not so dark yet that I can't read her expression, and I can see now that
what I mistook for fear was really a combination of compassion and dire concern.
My heart is still pounding with adrenaline but I manage to drop the gun and
cross over to where they are standing.

The man and woman watch me warily as I approach, and I can't say I blame them.
Leave it to me to make one hell of an entrance.

"Mulder, this is Carl and Annie."  They are thin and obviously exhausted, the
man wearing a grizzled beard that accentuates his frail appearance. I nod my
head in response to Scully's introduction and watch as she kneels back down on
the ground.

Up this close, it's clear that the dark mass beside Scully is a small boy,
covered to his waist in a torn blanket.  Judging by his size, he can't be more
than seven or eight.  His eyes are closed and his breathing is labored, his
chest quaking with each gasp of air.

"And this is Matthew," she says, laying her palm against his forehead.  The deep
flush in his cheeks is obvious even in the fading light.  There are oval-shaped
blisters along his hairline, on his chin and the pale skin of his neck.  They
are red and puffy, but not yet broken.  His lips are dry and cracked.

Scully pauses a moment, and then looks up at me.  "He's burning up, Mulder.
I've never seen anything like it."

No, I think.  You haven't.  And I wish to God you weren't seeing it now.

Of all of the horrible things that have befallen our world since They arrived,
the fever is by far the worst.   No one is really sure where it came from,
whether it was the deliberate result of some biological weapon They unleashed
upon us or merely a side effect of Their increased presence in our environment.

Regardless of its cause, the fever is the most insidious killer I've ever run
across, and given my previous work that's saying a hell of a lot.  It's
indiscriminate in choosing its victims, though.   Some people seem to be
naturally immune.   No symptoms, no problems, no explanation.   Some people die
within minutes of infection;  others die slowly, inch by inch, day after
agonizing day.  Then there are those who suffer as the fever lingers on and on,
yet manage to eventually recover.

I was one of the lucky ones.  Oh, I paid my dues, there's no doubt about that.
For awhile there I had it bad.  Really bad.   But in the end I survived.  I
don't know if it was a fluke of genetics that saved me, or just a stubborn will
to live.  I may never know.   But looking at this boy, I don't think he's going
to get the same chance.

"He's your son?"  I force the words out, wanting to utter different ones
instead.  I want to tell Scully to take her hand away from that moist damp
forehead.  I want to tell her to get up and come with me and turn my back on
this trio of strangers.  But I don't.  There's no point.

Exposure to the fever happens within seconds.  It's already too late.

The woman glances at the man before she nods in response to my question, as
though giving him the opportunity to speak first.  He remains silent, however,
his dark eyes locked on me.

"Yes," the woman, Annie, finally says.  "He's been sick for a few days, but it
wasn't until this afternoon that he lost consciousness.  We were walking, and he
just --"  She draws in a quick breath, tugging anxiously at a lock of her thin
blond hair.  "He just keeled over.   Carl's been carrying him, letting him rest,
but he won't wake up."

I nod, grimly.  I know the signs.

"Is there any place to camp around here?"  Carl's deep voice is edged with
fatigue.  "Any kind of shelter?"

"I don't really know."  The lie comes easily to my lips.  I've had a lot of
practice.  "We're just passing through.  Looking for some food."

Scully raises her head at my words and I send her a plea with my eyes.   Keep
silent, Scully.  Don't say any more than you have to.

If she hears my plea, she chooses to ignore it.  "We have some water," she tells
them.  "Some food, and some blankets.  We need to cover him up -- he's running a
high fever."

I glance again at the boy and see that she's speaking the truth.  Despite the
fact that the evening air is still pleasant, his small form is shivering.  He
looks so helpless, so vulnerable.  I know how miserable he is.  I remember it
all too well.

Don't get involved, Scully, I silently plead.   Don't do this.

I watch as Scully tugs on the neck of the boy's tee shirt, pulling it gently
down to expose his pale skin.  She lays her head against his chest, closing her
eyes as she listens to his heart.  The soft touches cause him to stir,
unintelligible murmurings issuing from his parted lips.

"Matthew?"  Annie crouches down beside Scully, running her fingers through the
boy's tangled hair.  "Matthew, honey, can you hear me?  It's Mommy, I'm here."

The boy doesn't answer.  I doubt he can hear the words she croons.

Scully sits up and backs away, giving her space.   A moment later Carl is beside
his wife, leaning protectively over his son.  I just stand there, silently,
oddly divorced from the drama playing out in front of me, still trying to fight
the urge to flee.

I have seen so much death.

I can't stand to watch this little boy die.

"Has he eaten anything recently?"  Scully's voice is edged with concern.

Carl shakes his head, his eyes on his son.  "Nothing since early yesterday.  He
wasn't keeping food down, last night or this morning.  Just a little bit of
water is all."

Scully looks up at me and I can see the resolution in her gaze.

I want to tell her that there's nothing we can do for him, not now.  It's too
late.  He's too far gone.   But I can't bear to quench the spark of hope I see
in her eyes.  She believes that she can save him, and I'll be damned if I'm not
going to let her try.

She has such amazing faith, my Scully.  Faith that still blooms inside her
despite all of the horrors that she has faced.  And a generosity of spirit that
remains undimmed despite the fact that our own survival is a daily struggle.  It
does not surprise me that she is willing to share what little we have with these
people who to us are nothing more than strangers.

Scully is a remarkable woman.   She humbles me.

"He might keep down some broth," I say, hoping that the blisters haven't yet
developed in his throat.  I jerk a thumb over my shoulder towards the spot where
I dropped our dinner.  "I've got a rabbit over there;  we can use some of the
juice from the meat.  Give him a little protein."

Carl glances at me.  "We don't want to impose on you."

If it wasn't for Scully, I would be tempted to take that easy out and walk away.
But the way her face lit up when I made my reluctant offer proves enough to keep
me in line.

"It's fine," I reply.  "Come on."

We make our way back to our temporary camp fairly quickly.   I lead the way now;
darkness has fallen with a vengeance and I keep the rifle at the ready.  Scully
and Annie follow closely behind, bearing the few items that Carl and Annie had
with them.  Truth be told, I'm surprised at how little they have, and wonder
exactly where it is they've come from so ill-equipped.  Carl brings up the rear,
cradling his son carefully in his arms.

When we reach the rock formation that marks our site, things divide according to
age old gender lines almost automatically.  It's funny, but with Scully I never
think about things like traditional roles.  She's proven time and again to be
more than my equal at any task she chooses to tackle.  But now it only seems
natural that  Scully helps Annie prepare a makeshift bed for Matthew, while Carl
builds a fire.  I busy myself with skinning the rabbit and preparing the meat.

I can hear Scully and Annie talking quietly to one another about Matthew's
condition, but otherwise the woods are eerily silent.  I find myself wishing for
a moment of private conversation with Scully, and wait for an opportunity to
present itself.

Carl adds another generous pile of wood to the fire and then watches as I guide
the meat towards the blaze with a makeshift spit.  "Lucky for us your wife is a
doctor," he remarks.

I look at him, surprised.  Apparently Scully did a fair job of becoming a
cquainted with these people before I showed up.  "Yes," I reply, without
bothering to correct his assumption about our relationship.  "I guess it is."

I rest the spit against a solid piece of rock and stand, brushing dirt off my
hands and onto the legs of my khakis.   I glance over my shoulder and see Scully
bathing Matthew's forehead with a dampened bit of cloth.  Annie sits beside her,
holding tightly to her son's hand.

"You've had it, haven't you."

Carl's voice is flat with certainty.  I meet his eyes and shrug.   "Awhile
back."

"What did you do?"  There's hope in his eyes now, and it kills me.  "How did you
get over it?"

"I got lucky," I whisper.   I see that the meat needs turning and I tend to that
as Carl leaves me and goes to sit beside his wife.

Dinner is a quiet affair.  I'm not used to having other people around and it
makes me more taciturn than usual.  Casual conversation is a skill I've all but
lost, so I'm thankful for the peace.  Scully has managed to make a watery broth
for Matthew and holds an old tin can full of it as Annie and Carl try to coax it
down their son's throat.  When they finish, we share the meat that I've managed
to cook.  There's not really enough to feed all four of us, but we make do,
supplementing it with a little rice and a few of the apples.

It's only when we've finished eating and Matthew seems to be sleeping peacefully
that anything is said, during the post-meal lull that used to be the signal for
the waiter to bring the coffee.  Coffee's in short supply these days but
Scully's curiosity is not.

"Where are you headed?" she asks, tossing an apple core into the fire.

"West," Carl answered.  "We've got... we think we've got some family, out that
way."

"Where?"

"California," Annie says.  "Near San Francisco."

"That's a long way."  Scully's expression is reflective, illuminated by the
light of the fire.

"And you?  Where are you going?"

Scully glances at me and reads the caution on my face.  "North," she finally
says, but adds nothing more.  For that I am thankful.

"You'd better be careful, if you're planning on going through the mountains."
Carl stokes the fire with a thin branch, causing sparks to fly into the air as
new pieces of wood ignite.

"Why is that?"  I don't really want to engage, but even I know it's foolish to
ignore this kind of information.

"There are people living up there who aren't much for company.  Scavengers.
They survive by ambushing travelers, I guess.  Seems like they've got quite a
system in place."  Carl frowns with the memory.  "Caught us off guard, made off
with nearly everything we had."

My stomach churns at the news.  This answers my unspoken question about their
meager supplies.  I have no reason to disbelieve what he says;  Carl has nothing
to gain by lying to me.  But if what he says is the truth, Scully and I are in
big trouble.  According to the map, a pass through the mountains is the only
direct way to get where we're going.  To maneuver around them somehow will cost
us time that we simply don't have.

I can see by the expression on Scully's face that she's reached the same
conclusion.  Her eyes flicker over to meet mine for an instant and they are
filled with guarded worry.

We'll figure it out, Scully, I silently tell her.   We'll figure it out.
Somehow.

Seemingly reassured by our brief silent conversation, Scully turns her attention
back to Carl.  "Have you been on your own all this time?"

"No."  Carl barks out the word.  "My brother was with us, most of the way."

"What happened to him?  Did he get sick?"

Annie shakes her head.  "No.  We were stopped.  They stopped us.  And They took
him away."  She reaches for Carl's hand and takes it in hers.

I know what Carl is going to say before the words leave his mouth and I feel a
shiver course up my spine.  "He was AB," he explains softly.  "They found him on
one of their patrols.  They're still looking, you know."

"How did --"  I hear the words as they catch in Scully's throat.  "How did They
find him?"

"Who knows?"  Carl shrugs.  "Who knows anything, these days."

There isn't much else to say after that and so we don't.  Instead, we clear away
the remains of our meal and settle in for the night.   Carl and Annie hunker
down near Matthew, wrapped in a torn sheet that they pull from inside their lone
satchel.  Scully has already given Matthew two of our blankets so I spread the
third on the ground on the opposite side of the fire.  Force of habit makes me
lay the rifle down within arm's reach.

We pull on extra layers to help brave the night air and then I lay down on my
back, offering Scully the chance to use me as a pillow.  She accepts the simple
gift and rests her head against my shoulder, pressing her body close to mine.  I
wrap my arms around her to ward off the nighttime chill and wish we had another
goddamn blanket.

"You okay?"  I whisper, still a bit resentful that our solitude has been
disturbed.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, her hand toying with the fabric of my shirt.  After a
moment, she speaks in a hushed tone.  "Do you think he has a chance?"

I want to lie, but I can't.   "I don't know."

She bites her lower lip between her lips, a visual indication that she's chewing
on a thought.  "Was it like that for you?  When you were sick?"

A hard question, with no easy answer.  "I guess.  I don't remember too much of
it."

Her brow is creased with worry.  I want to erase those fine lines that wrinkle
her skin.  I want to wash away all of her fears.

"That was a long time ago, Scully," I softly remind her.  "I'm fine now."

"I know," she says.  She slips her hand into mine and I hold it tightly.  "I
know."

We don't say anything more after that.  I watch her until she closes her eyes,
wanting to make sure that she's safely on her way to peaceful dreams.

I'm nearly asleep myself when I hear her voice in my ear.  "Thank you, Mulder."

"For what?"  I force my eyes open again.  It's she who is watching me, now. Her
eyes are limpid silver in the moonlight.  She is so beautiful.

"For letting them stay."  Hushed words, her breath warm against my neck.  "For
helping them."

I don't give her an answer.  I know that she doesn't expect one.  Instead, I
brush her forehead with a gentle kiss and run a hand through her hair.

"I love you," she murmurs, and brings her lips to mine.   I kiss her back.

I love her too.

The pre-dawn grey greets me with a sound from my worst nightmare.

Retching. Wet, gurgling retching punctuated by tiny, pathetic gasps for oxygen.

I sit with a start, my subconscious slow to understand that the sounds are from
the present, not the past -- from a child, not from me. My lungs, however, burn
in empathy, in memory.

Scully is still fast asleep; like the proverbial rock, my Scully. I stand
quietly and walk to where Carl is holding Matthew's seizing body face downward
so that he doesn't choke on his own blood. Annie is crouching next to them, her
face contorted in a mask of agony, tears coursing down her cheeks.

She doesn't see me for a moment. When I register in her field of vision, her
gaze pins me to the ground with its desperation, her voice fiercely hushed in
odd deference for my sleeping partner.  "What's happening? For god's sake, tell
me!"



I whisper calmly.  Clearly. "The blisters in his airway and lungs have ruptured.
They're bleeding, and his stomach can't digest that amount of blood. When his
stomach is empty, he'll stop vomiting." I nod reassuringly, as if to say it will
be over soon.  And it will.

I don't tell them the torture their child is suffering, the incredible pain of
stomach acid flowing over scores of open sores.  Because if I tell them I'll be
reminded that he is just a child. If I stop to comprehend the inherent cruelty,
the grief will hit. And I can't let that grief consume me. I can't afford it. We
can't afford it.  And so I turn away.

"When the vomiting ends, give him only a small amount of water and coax him back
to sleep if you can." I glance back, seeing both their ashen faces nod. I lie
down next to Scully again, wrapping my arms around her small, vulnerable frame.
I try not to notice how much I'm shaking.

When we begin to break camp a sleepless hour later, Matthew is once again
unconscious.  Carl and Annie return the borrowed blankets to me while Scully is
washing, and I don't refuse them.  We'll be needing them more than they will. In
return I give them several apples and a detailed
description of the area; I suggest they stay for a while and rest, since nature
is accommodating in this pleasant riverbed. I hope they listen to the advice.
This would be an ideal resting place for their son.

After Scully gives parting advice regarding Matthew's care, we part somberly,
bound for different paths and separate futures. I am suddenly eager to leave
this place I once found so comforting, and leave their misery far behind. I know
the selfishness of my thoughts, but am not disturbed by them.

I'm not the man I used to be, nor can I ever be that man again.

If not for Scully, some days I might not even recognize myself.

The day is pleasant, cooler, more like autumn. A good day for a long walk, which
is what we have ahead of us. Ideally we need to make 10 miles today. I check the
map one last time before we veer northwest, wanting to keep the river within
reasonable distance for as long as possible before we get to the foothills of
the mountains.

"What I'd give for a deluxe Rand McNally atlas and an Eddie Bauer compass," I
mutter, trying to force a lighter mood. "And a LandRover with a full tank of gas
while I'm at it."

"How did you get that map anyway, Mulder?" Scully is keeping pace next to me,
her face radiant and pink in the morning light.

"Traded it for 5 issues of 'Playboy' that I found under a kid's bed in a looted
DC apartment," I grin.

She snorts loudly. "Only you would understand the inherent value of pornography
after the apocalypse."

"Man has to have diversion, Scully, even in the hardest times," I reply with
mock sincerity. I get a smile for my trouble, and all seems right with the world
again.

But Scully doesn't see it that way, of course.

"Mulder. Tell me what you know about the fever."

I sigh. "Trust me, Scully, you don't want to know."

"It has nothing to do with want, Mulder. It has everything to do with need.  I'm
a doctor. I need to know what's happened to the human race while I was... while
I was gone." Her tone is firm, stubborn.

I look ahead at the thinning forest ahead of us, staring at the yellowing aspen
leaves, the way the early sunshine makes them burst into tiny flames.  I
concentrate on the crunch of our shoes on the earth.  Anything to stall, to
think up an answer that will end her questioning.  Unfortunately,
whatever I say will only lead to more questions. This is Scully, after all.
This, for better or worse, is one reason why I love her.

So I tell her.

"It kills. Children, men, women. There is a mutated strain that affects d
omesticated livestock. It is conjectured there might be a strain that, in
combination with rabies, affects dogs.  The first symptoms are nausea, fatigue
and a sore throat.  A dangerously high fever follows, along with
odd oval-shaped blisters on the face and neck. Internal blistering occurs in the
larynx, trachea, and lungs. When those rupture, an intense period of internal
bleeding and vomiting occurs, usually leading to death." I hear my voice as if
from a great distance -- cold, clinical, impersonal. I don't look at her.

She repeats the words whispered in my ear last night, her voice hushed and awed.
"But you lived."

"Some people live."

"Tell me."

Tell her?  Tell her what?  About the months I spent in hell, half-insane with
fever, unable to speak because of the damage to my larynx?  Tell her about the
squalid, lice-infested pit of a rebel "clinic" I holed up in, prepared to die?
Where instead of getting food and water and a semblance of care, I lost most of
my belongings to thieves?

"Mulder." She stops me in my tracks with a hand on my arm. I whirl on her in
sudden, inexplicable anger.

"What, Scully?  What do you want to know?  Do you really need to know that I was
so *fucking* sick that all I could do was pray to die? I knew you were out
there. I *knew* I could find you.  And yet I was ready to lose you forever if it
just meant ending the pain.  I prayed to *die*, Scully, even though you were
still alive.  Do you understand what that means?  I had never given up in my
entire pathetic life.  Not even when They came.  Not even when They took you
away from me.  Never.  But I was a fucking *coward* then, Scully."

All the color drains from her face as her eyes fill with tears. She wavers a
moment, then puts a cool hand on my overheated cheek, deflating me entirely.
Wrapping me in her arms, where I nearly fall limp.

"I know, Mulder," she whispers.  "I know."

She is quiet for a long moment before she decides to continue.

"In the Compound, They did tests.   On the women who weren't designated as
Babymakers.  They performed these experiments...  I was a coward then too,
Mulder.  I was afraid then, just like you."

My arms encircle her -- tightly, desperately -- and I whisper muffled pleas for
forgiveness in her hair.  "I'm sorry, Scully. God, I'm so sorry."

We stand for countless minutes, clinging to each other in reassurance.  She'll
have no more questions now.

At midday we spread out our meager rations and play "pick the can".

"This one is heavier than the others.  Not as sloshy sounding.  My guess is
chili, or Spaghetti-O's, maybe stew."

"Then save that for tonight, when we can heat it." Scully picks up another and
shakes it like a maraca. "This one.  Sounds like fruit or vegetables."

I nod in assent, and she opens it.  Peas.

"Excellent choice, madame.  Del Monte grew a fine pea."

She snorts and wrinkles her nose. We share the soggy peas and a few apples in
silence, both of us likely mulling over the fact that we only have seven cans
left.  I silently reassure myself that we can supplement our diet by hunting now
that we're heading further north and that it's getting later
in the year.  It's a gamble, but the rabbit last night was a positive sign.

"How much further until the foothills, do you think?"

"We might be there in another three days, I think. Although everything is a
rough estimate."

She nods in agreement. "We'll probably see them once we clear the woods and hit
the horizon once again."  She pauses before continuing.  "What do you think
about what Carl and Annie mentioned?  About there being thieves in the
mountains?"  Her voice betrays no fear, just curiosity.

I shrug noncommittally. "It's probably true.  There are thieves everywhere,
despite the scarcity of free survivors.  Probably the same ratio of good to bad
as there was in society before Colonization.  We can't be too careful, but I
don't think we should change course.  It's important we get into the valley by
the time winter sets in."

Scully nods in agreement, then slaps me lightly on the thigh. "Then let's get
going."

It's nearing sunset as we break through the treeline into what seems to be
another world.  With the brilliant hues of red and orange as a backdrop, the
burnt and destroyed skeleton of a town lies in front of us.  Houses, businesses,
schools and yards are now battered, beaten, and tattered shells of human
occupation.  Every structure has incurred a fire of some kind. Nothing has a
roof.  Eighty percent of everything in view has been leveled to the ground.  A
modern ghost town, much like every other modern ghost town abandoned in what was
once North America.

The sight neither frightens us nor depresses us.  It is simply the reality of
this world, a reality we have grown accustomed to.

Nothing of value will be left, of that we are fairly certain.  But we do what we
have to, dangerous as it might be.  We scavenge.

We agree that the outskirts will have been picked over the most and head quietly
toward the center of the small town.  The rifle is in my hand, loaded. We move
quietly, keenly aware of any small sound in the silence of dusk.

After seven houses and a tour of what must have been Main Street, we lower our
guard slightly and risk a few whispers.

"Let's head back toward the outskirts and camp.  There's nothing left here."

"OK. But I want to check around for a few more minutes before we give up." I
know I'm being unnecessarily optimistic, but it seems this place hasn't been
pillaged in a very long while.

We walk a bit further, careful to avoid the piles of rubble that lie all over
the ground.  A still-standing billboard catches my attention with a torn piece
of sign paper flapping in the light breeze.  It's the Marlboro Man.  Or at least
a chunk of his head and the ever-present cowboy hat.  I am suddenly struck by
the surreal question: are there any smokers left?  It's been a long time since
I've smelled the stench of smoke, although I can still perfectly recall the
acrid sweetness of Morleys.

"Mulder."

The intensity of her voice snaps me out of musing.  I grip the gun tightly and
walk the 10 feet to where she is peering around the corner of a blown-apart
concrete wall.

On the ground is a body.  A man, dead only a week or so by the smell of him. His
pack is sitting next to him on the ground, untouched.

"He must have simply died," Scully whispers.  He looks grotesquely peaceful,
curled in the fetal position with his back against the remains of the wall. I
spare a moment of regret, then reach for the pack. We move upwind from the odor,
opening the satchel with frantic and curious hands.

Three marked cans of tuna, two of kidney beans -- veritable gold.  Some p
hotographs that neither of us can bear to look at.  A notebook, a small, chewed
pencil.  A Bible.  Two small bottles half-filled with stale water.  Seven tea
bags.  A battered tin pot.  Can opener, fork, spoon, bent
steak knife.  A pack of cards.

We look at each other, the incredible luck of the situation apparent in our
silent gaze.  In mute agreement, we transfer everything into our packs except
the Bible and the photographs.  The can opener and pot can be traded, since we
already have those necessities.

The strangeness of the day has left me melancholy and exhausted.  I take the
photographs, walk back to the body, and place them in the man's breast pocket.
Despite the horrific smell, I stand for a long moment in silent thanks to our
dead benefactor.

I am not surprised when I feel Scully's presence next to me.  She squats down
and places the Bible reverently into the lifeless, rotting hands of the man.
Once again I am struck by the faith she places in humanity, in the inherent good
she believes can be found in this remnant of civilization.

To me, the Bible is a worthless object, on many levels.

In the crisp, cool night air, Scully and I make love on the outskirts of a dead
world.  Our bodies move in slow, erotic rhythm -- caressing and worshipping our
respective soul's other half with infinite tenderness.  With every touch, every
kiss we reaffirm our bond, our devotion. Telling each other through tender
intimacy just how much we each live for the other.  Tonight, I feel the prick of
tears as I come deep within her.  In contrast to last night, I am the one to
fall asleep in her arms.

But I wake once again to the sound of retching.

I sit up abruptly, the blankets we slept in twisted around me.  I blink rapidly
to chase the sleep away from my bleary eyes.  "Scully?   Scully?"

The hazy mist of early morning clouds my vision and it is a moment before I see
her, crouched some distance away.    She is on her knees, her body braced by one
hand that rests against the trunk of a tree.

I am on my feet and by her side in seconds.  "Scully!"

She does not look up to answer me;  her eyes remain closed as her body shakes
with violent convulsions.   I sink down beside her, slipping one arm around her
waist.   I use the other to hold back the thick waves of hair that dangle in her
face.

Oh God.   Dear God.   Not this.

Her free hand slides up from the ground and rests against the arm I'm using to
hold her steady.   I'm glad that she's not trying to push me away.

"Mulder, I'm okay, I'm --"  The words are lost as she heaves and vomits again.

"Shhhh," I croon, holding her as gently as I can.   I feel every tremor that
rocks her body, each agitated breath that she draws in between the bouts of
coughing and choking.

Please.   Please.   Not her.

Finally the violent nausea releases her from its grasp and she sags in my arms.
I cradle her tenderly, tucking her head against my shoulder, and wipe the sweat
away from her forehead with my fingers.

She's warm, I realize as I touch her skin, and fear ripples through me.

I wait until her breathing has evened out and she is no longer gasping for air
before I slip an arm beneath her knees, bracing the other around her shoulders,
and rise to my feet.

"C'mon," I murmur.  "Let's get you away from here."

She doesn't protest the fact that I'm carrying her and that alone is enough to
scare me to death.  I bring her back over to our crumpled heap of blankets and
lay her down gently.   Her eyes remain closed as I pour water from one of our
bottles on a t-shirt and use it to wipe her face and mouth.

She opens her eyes midway through my ministrations and offers me a limp smile.
"It's okay, Mulder," she murmurs.  "I'm fine."

"I know," I tell her, but I'm lying.   I don't know any such thing.

"Can I -- can I have some water?"

I nod, and help her lean against one of our packs.   I hold out the bottle for
her and she takes it gingerly.   "Just a little," I caution her.  "Go easy, for
now."

She takes a long sip and then regards me with just a hint of amusement.  "I'm
the doctor around here, remember?"

"Sorry," I quip, glad to see some of the color flooding back into her face.  "I
didn't mean to get carried away."

I wait until she's had a little more of the water and is able to sit up on her
own before I allow myself to ask.   "How are you feeling, Scully?"

"Better," she says, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand.  "Or at
least I will be after I clean up a little bit."

I nod, but my eyes are still locked on hers.  "Are you sure?"

"I think so," she replies.  "I don't know what happened, Mulder.   It came over
me so suddenly.   One minute I was sleeping, and the next..."

Some of the newly-restored color drains out of her face, and I know that she is
thinking what I've been thinking.  The words hang in the air between us,
unspoken.

It is she who finally breaks the silence.  "Am I..."  Her hand rises to her
forehead again, palm down this time.   Her mouth puckers into a worried circle.
"Does my forehead feel warm to you?"

I reach out and move her hand away, placing mine in its stead.  Her gaze doesn't
waver from mine as I allow my hand to rest there, the most makeshift temperature
gauge imaginable.   Her skin feels normal now, and I tell myself that it was
just the strain of the retching that made her warm before.

"No," I ultimately say, sliding my hand down to touch her shoulder.  "No, it
doesn't."

"Okay."  She nods, as though my medical opinion matches her own.  "I don't feel
dizzy or lightheaded or anything, either.  So I guess it's nothing serious."

She looks at me as though for confirmation, and I don't know what to say.   I
don't have an answer for her, but I hazard my best guess.  "It was the rabbit,"
I tell her.

"The rabbit?"

"I must not have cooked it well enough."   Just saying the words makes them feel
suddenly true.   "You probably got some raw meat, and it made you sick.   Or
maybe it was the rabbit that was sick, and the meat itself was bad."

She tilts her head slightly as she considers my words.   I know what she's
thinking.   I ate the rabbit too, and I'm not experiencing any problems.

But I'm confident I've found the answer, and I want her to share in my ce
rtainty.  "That has to be it, Scully.  It was the rabbit.   We're going to have
to be more careful with any other wild game from here on out."

"You're right," she ultimately says.  "We'll have to be more careful."

As a result of Scully's bout of nausea we have agreed to take things easy today,
and so far have done a good job of it.   I don't want to push too hard because
thus far Scully hasn't really eaten anything, and I don't like the idea of her
doing hard walking without any food in her stomach.

"I would eat," she explains, "if we had something like Saltine crackers.   But
all we've got are apples and jerky and whatever's in those other cans, and I'm
not sure I'm up to any of that yet."

"There's the rice," I remind her.  "That's a pretty bland, gentle food.   Maybe
we should stop and cook some of that."

She shrugs as she continues down the cracked asphalt beside me.  "We can try it
later.   For now, let's keep going.  I'm fine."

I decide not to argue.   According to the map, we've got another two hours to go
before we reach the point where we have to leave this stretch of road.  That
seems like a likely place to stop for the day.   We can call it a late lunch or
an early dinner, whatever works, and settle in for the night.   And then pick up
the pace again tomorrow.

By tomorrow, I'm certain she'll be feeling fine.

We continue to walk, blanketed by the eerie silence that envelops the world
these days.  It's almost surreal how quiet it is;  even the animals and insects
seem to have a new respect for this utterly changed world in which we now live.
Sometimes I miss the noise.  Other times, like now, I'm just thankful that I'm
still alive to appreciate the silence, and that Scully is safe by my side.

"Mulder, look."

Her words jar me out of my reflective mood and I glance up at the road ahead.
We've been following a two-lane stretch of blacktop bordered on either side by a
steep ravine for the past several miles.   In front of us, I'm surprised to see
that the road seemingly drops off into nothingness.   Instantly, my anxiety
level rises.

"Careful, Scully.   Let's check it out."

We move forward cautiously.  Once we get closer to the end of the blacktop, the
situation becomes clearer.   Some kind of bomb must have fallen in this area,
creating a crater in the otherwise unbroken ribbon of road.   The resulting
crevice is deep, a couple hundred feet down, and stretching nearly as far
across.   The asphalt continues on the other side of the sheared off edge, but
the problem of how to get there looms large in my mind.

"What are we going to do?"   Scully turns a questioning face up to mine.  "Can
we turn back?  Is there another way around?"

I pause to consult the map before attempting to answer.   According to the lines
on the worn and folded piece of paper, the only alternate route would involve
some serious backtracking, nearly a day's worth.  Not to mention requiring a
much longer loop before we could manage to get back on track.

"It doesn't look like it,"  I reluctantly conclude.  "Not unless we want to
invest some serious time."

"Well then," she says, "it looks like we've got to find a way to get across."

She moves towards the edge and I force myself not to pull her back, reminding
myself that she's more than capable of taking care of herself.  I join her and
together we study the problem that lies before us.

"Maybe we should traverse the ravine," she finally says.  "It's steep, but not
that steep.   And there are plenty of trees and foliage that we can use as
leverage."

I look at the crevice, and then I look at Scully, and I weigh the possibilities.
Her analysis looks to be correct, but I don't relish the idea.   The ravine is
certainly steep enough to make falling a risk, though I realize that we can
skirt the outer edge and thereby shorten the process a little.   Still, it won't
be easy, and it will certainly be dangerous.

"I think we should turn back."

"Why?"  She fixes me with a sharp, blue-eyed stare.  "You said it yourself,
Mulder.  Going back will cost us some serious time.  Time we don't have.   I say
we go across."

She is so determined that it gives me a bit of much-needed courage.  "All
right," I concede.   "But we've got to be careful."   I hesitate, weighing the
situation once more.  "I think I should go first.  Test the footholds and
handholds.   If they'll hold my weight, they'll certainly hold yours."

Scully meets my eyes and considers my words and finally agrees.  "That makes
sense.  But then you should give me the bigger pack, at least while we cross.
That will even out the weight distribution and lessen some of the risk for you
as you test the firmness of the ground."

I want to deny her, but she's actually right, and so I decide not to argue.   I
slip my pack off my shoulders and take the one she offers me and shoulder it
instead.   The difference between the packs is no more than a few pounds, but it
could mean a whole lot more if we get into trouble.

"You okay?"  I ask, hoping the pack is not too heavy.

"Fine," she answers, shifting slightly on her feet to hold the pack more
comfortably.   "Let's just go."

I make my way to the edge and slide one cautious foot over.  The ground remains
stable beneath my feet which I take as a good sign.  The second foot follows,
dislodging a few clumps of dirt and shattered asphalt and I try to remember to
take it slow.  I reach out and brace myself with both hands on the edge and then
lean forward to grasp the branch of a low-lying shrub.

Three measured steps later and I glance up at the edge.  Scully is standing
there, watching my progress, an anxious expression on her face.  "You okay?"
she asks.

"Fine," I reassure her.  "The ground is more solid than it looks."

"Should I come down?"

"Hold on a minute," I tell her.  "Let me get a little further first."

She nods, and I continue, one step at a time.   When I feel as though I've made
some good progress, I call to her.  "Okay, go ahead.  Follow my lead."

I stop and watch as she adjusts the position of the pack on her back and then
steps over the edge.  She quickly finds her footing and gives me another nod to
motion me forward.  "Keep going, Mulder."

I do as instructed, alternately keeping an eye on the path I'm blazing and
turning my head to glance back at her.   I've decided to follow the edge of the
crater to the left;  there are more shrubs and branches to grab on that side.
It's slippery work, but thus far everything I've touched has managed to support
my weight.

Fifteen minutes later we've made some measurable progress and I'm starting to
feel good about the possibility of success.  It's then that I hear her cry out.
It's a short, sharp cry and it freezes me in my tracks.

"Scully?"  I turn my head to see her clinging to a branch that I passed just
moments ago, her feet planted in the crumbling dirt.  "What's wrong?"

"My stomach," she tells me from between clenched teeth.  "It's cramping.   I
think -- I think I'm going to be sick."

Shit.  Double shit.  I force my brain to think.

"Can you make it back, Scully?  The way you came?"   From where we are, it seems
like the best option.   There isn't enough solid ground above us to support her
if she were to try and scramble directly up the side right here.

"I don't know...." Her voice trails off as she closes her eyes.  Even though I'm
a few feet away, I can see beads of sweat forming on her brow.   She takes a
deep breath and her eyes snap open with resolve.  "I think so.   I think I can."

"Take it slow," I instruct her, "and keep taking deep breaths.   I'm right
behind you."

And I am, just a second later.   We inch back the way that we came, and I listen
to her labored breaths every step of the way.   When she's nearly back to the
place where we slipped over, I reach up and pull myself out of the crevice just
shy of the mark.   It's a bit narrow but I make it onto solid ground and then
crawl over to where she balances along the edge.

"C'mon," I say as I drop my pack to the ground and reach out for her with both
arms.   I pull her up beside me and help her slide her pack to the ground.   The
second that it drops she's on her hands and knees and the spasms overtake her.

It seems to me that the vomiting is even more severe than it was this morning,
but maybe it's just my paranoia working overtime.   Again I hold her, soothing
her with gentle words as the convulsions rack her body.

At last it's over, and I help her to a sitting position, my eyes already
scanning the surrounding landscape.   There's no way that I'm going to allow her
to chance a second attempt at the ravine;  we'll have to double back, but I
don't want to try that today.   This doesn't seem like an ideal place to camp,
but we'll find a way to make do.  We don't have a choice.

I don't see anyplace nearby that looks safe enough, but then I remember the
abandoned service station we passed about a quarter mile back.   The roof was
missing, but the building will provide us with a bit of shelter and protection.
I don't want to take the chance of running into anything, animal or human, while
she's feeling weak.   "Scully, do you remember the gas station we passed?"

She looks at me, her gaze soft and unfocused.   It's clear she's still feeling
ill, but she manages to answer me with a nod.

"We're going back there," I tell her.  "Call it a day, and start out again
tomorrow."

"But that's backtracking," she replies.   "I just need to rest for a minute,
Mulder, and then we can keep going."

I shake my head definitively.  "No way.   At least not today.   You need to lie
down for awhile, get your strength back.   Maybe eat a little something.   Then
tomorrow we'll start again."

I can tell that she's about to protest, but this isn't an argument I'm going to
let her win.   I stand and shoulder the heavier pack and lift the other in my
arms.   "I've got our stuff, Scully.   Let's just go."

She stares at me for a moment, then finally rises to her feet.   Her legs are
shaky and she nearly stumbles and that's what does it.  I can tell from the
expression on her face that she's feeling weak, and tired, and scared.

The worst thing is, I'm feeling scared too.

THE END [for now -- hee hee!]

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