TITLE: Wambli AUTHOR: Virtie E-MAIL: virtuesandvices@aol.com WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/fanficcorner/ RATING: Mild NC-17, for language and sexual situations. CATEGORY: TR - Adventure/Romance CLASSIFICATION: MSR, X-File, Conspiracy, Mulder/other. SPOILERS: Lot's of quotes, but no real spoilers. ARCHIVE: Yes, but please let me know first. SUMMERY: A sequel to my 'Someday' trilogy, which started with 'The Letter', continued with 'Eyes in the Night', and ending with 'Someday'. These stories do not have to be read to understand this one, but it is advised. 'Wambli' takes place five years after 'Someday'. DISCLAIMER: All X-File characters belong to CC, 10-13 Productions, and FOX. I'm not making anything really useful from this, but I hope readers have fun reading it. The town of Lincoln, the county of McCloud, and the Bad River Indian Reservation are all fictional, though they are based on real places. Other South Dakota landmarks are real. DEDICATION: To my fellow writers whoes work I still read with a passion and who continue to support me in my feeble attempts to emulate them, namely: Storm, Lovesfox, Havisham, ShipMe, SASpooky and Foxie Meg, as well as all the residents of Slap Happy's! Thanks, gals! ************************************************************ WAMBLI ***** "For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that the man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity." Ecclesiastes 4:19 ***** The Skies Over Western South Dakota Summer Wambli was hunting. This event wasn't abnormal. After all, she spent 90% of her waking hours on the hunt. She had to, seeing as nearly 9 out of 10 dives she made at prey failed. Those weren't bad odds; in fact, they were much better than others of her kind. Wambli was special, and she knew it. It was hot today. And windy. Another normal occurrence on the Northern Plains during early August. As she soared, Wambli felt the heat of the sun beating against the back of her golden head, and her mouth opened, allowing the hot air in her body to escape. She would have to find a place to rest soon. And maybe a shallow pool to bathe in. Hot days like this demanded access to cool water. But she was hungry, and she needed food; she hadn't eaten in at least five days. She turned away from the sun and twisted her head a bit to gaze downward. The prairie grass was brown already; it had been a dry summer. The earth tones of the prairie blended into the barren, rocky moonscape of the Badlands, making it almost impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Her large brown eyes spotted movement immediately. A pispiza, or prairie dog. A young one, not yet smart enough to stay out of the sun when it was this hot. Or one that thought he was so smart that by feeding in the heat he would avoid being killed by the average hunter. If she could physically have done so, Wambli would have smiled; she was far from average. With a sharp pull of muscle, she reduced her seven foot long wingspan considerably, directing her large, but lightweight, body downward. For several meters she dropped, her speed nearing 70 miles per hour. The burrowing rodent never saw her...until it was too late. He screeched and ran for the nearest entrance to his underground town, but 14 pounds of feather and hollow bone crashed into him. Wambli spread her wings and fanned her tail feathers as she reached the little yellow animal, stretching her feet out to grab him. Her black talons wrapped themselves around the furry body, squeezing with pressure that could easily break bone. The deadly claws sank into flesh, severed arteries, and punctured organs. Pain was minimal as the little prairie dog died almost instantly. With a satisfied shriek, Wambli began tearing into the warm body. She used her feet to hold her meal down as she ripped upward with her powerful beak. The unfortunate victim's family members popped their heads out of their burrows, squeaking and chirping amongst themselves as they watched her eat. They were unafraid. Wambli had her meal; she was content...for the moment. She swallowed the small animal in three bites. Bone, fur, everything. Her body would digest most of it; all but the fur, which she would regurgitate later in the form of a soft, oblong shaped pellet. A large lump appeared in her throat as she ate; her crop filling with food. It would be ground up there before being further digested in her stomach. It was a bird's way of 'chewing', since they had no teeth. With a sigh, Wambli shook herself, closing her wings against her body and bringing her tail feathers back into their relaxed wedge-shaped position. She turned her head almost 180 degrees to straighten a mussed feather on her back, her flexible neck showing no strain at the position. A noise caught her attention and she stood straighter, her head swiveling toward the sound. A truck was driving toward her, dust trailing thickly along behind it. With a powerful thrust of her legs, Wambli sent her body into the air, her wings taking over and carrying her up into the blue, cloudless sky. Humans were coming. She had long ago learned to avoid them at all costs. Content with her meal, Wambli went in search of an updraft. On this hot day, it wasn't hard to find. The thermal current she found allowed her to soar in circles with a minimum of effort, carrying her farther and farther upward. The Turkey Vulture, common in these parts during the warm months, was the most accomplished of the raptors at soaring, but her own kind was quite adept as well. Slowly, lazily she circled the sky, her binocular vision watching as things got smaller and smaller beneath her. Miles and miles of open prairie stretched before her eyes, ending at the base of a small range of mountains to the west. Paha Sapa. The Black Hills. She passed over a highway, watching curiously the traffic that traveled it. Not much, but more than in the winter months. She passed over a ranch, over a herd of cattle grazing in the field. Wambli had no use for cows, even during calving season. She was large enough and strong enough to kill a newborn calf, but she would not be able to fly away with it. She could barely fly with something half her own body weight. Newborn lambs offered more promise; they could at least be dragged into hiding. But the season for birthing was long gone; rabbits, prairie dogs, prairie chickens and the occasional skunk were all that interested her these days. Something caught her eye again, and carefully, she shifted her weight against the pull of the air currents she was riding and flew down to have a closer look. It was a dead calf. She circled closer. No other cattle were near, and two vultures were already feeding on the fresh carcass. Wambli considered. It was a recent death, probably due to sickness or a pack of wild dogs. Coyotes would no doubt be blamed, thought they rarely went after livestock in the summer when other game was much easier to catch. Fresh meat, easily obtained, was something she couldn't refuse. She made her way toward the body. One of the vultures immediately flew away. Though almost as big as she was, the large black bird with the bald red head was not a fighter. Their feet were made for walking, not killing. And they were smart; smart enough to know when not to argue with a predator as large as she was. The other was an old male, smaller than the female who had just flown away. He looked at Wambli with unconcerned eyes, hissed at her, then continued to pull at the dead calf's hide. Wambli landed and strode over to the carcass. She eyed the old vulture for a while, then began to eat, leaving him be. She settled into the meal, concentrating on the job, when the old one across from her hissed again. Wambli's head shot up and her body tensed, ready for take-off. But it was too late. With a loud pop and a sharp rattle, the net that had been hidden under the dirt flew up and over both birds. She screamed and began struggling desperately, but she knew it was no use. She readied her claws for defense. The old vulture, not having the sharp talons of his fellow captive, turned and faced his captors, two men who were striding toward them wearing heavy leather jackets and welder's gloves. With another hiss, he did what vultures do when frightened: he vomited. Even Wambli, with her limited sense of smell, felt sick. The men groaned, but continued to move forward. "Why the hell didn't you wait for the damn vulture to leave first?" one of the men complained. "And take the chance of losing her?" the other answered. "No way." Slowly, cautiously, the made their way toward the enraged bird. "Naw. This pretty baby's gonna bring a good price on the Rez. Old WhiteEagle loves the really big ones." If she had been capable, Wambli would have groaned aloud, but she could only do it in her heart. 'Not again,' she thought. 'Not again.' ************************************************************ "Only place you had to be on time was home for dinner...Never had to lock your doors. No modems. No faxes. No cell phones." "Mulder, if you had to do without a cell phone for two minutes you'd lapse into catatonic schizophrenia." Episode 4x03-Home ***** McCloud County, South Dakota Mid-August The silver Chevy Blazer with 'McCoud County Sheriff' imprinted on the side cruised down the highway heading north toward Lincoln, its headlights slashing a path through the prairie darkness. Inside the vehicle, the McCloud County Sheriff was finishing a conversation with one of the county's few lawyers. "Yeah, Tom. I understand. But at least try to get the kid's parents to agree to him seeing a counselor, okay?" "You bet, Sheriff. 'Night, now." "Goodnight." With a sigh, he pressed the end button on the small handheld instrument, then deliberately turned it off. It had been one hell of a long day. A hell of a long week. But at least it was over now, just a few minutes before midnight on this Friday night, and he was on his way home at last. His window was open, and he breathed in the warm summer night as the breeze stirred up by his vehicle blew inside, ruffling his dark hair. The crickets were loud in the still night, with no wind to intrude on their symphony. No wind was rare in these parts, he knew. Having lived here for three years now, he felt he knew the prairie well. He respected it, resented it at times. Loved it more than hated it. Never wanted to leave it or the people that called it home. Despite this, he was anxious for tomorrow, when he and his family would leave it for a day. The two hour drive to Rapid City was taken about once a month, sometimes more, and they planned to go tomorrow. They would leave these desolate plains for tree filled mountains filled with the hustle and bustle of tourist season...but only for a day. Ten years ago, he would have laughed if anyone told him he would be content as a small town Sheriff in no-where South Dakota. Content with his family. At peace with his life. But he was. He slowed as he reached his turnoff, which was slightly less than a mile before reaching the limits of Lincoln, population 2,621. He pulled off the blacktop and onto the gravel drive leading to his house. It sat on 20 acres of prime land, perfect for horses to graze and children to play. Large cottonwood and oak trees lined the drive, and as he rounded a bend and drove over a slight hill, the house came into view. Large without being monstrous, the ranch style, two story house had been built years ago, long before they had bought it, on property that had been settled in 1883. He smiled when he saw the light on in the living room window. Though he knew his family was most likely in bed, his wife had left a light on for him. The simple gesture touched him every time he came home in the dark. His headlights flashed on the gardens that lined the house, full of blooming flowers. Though the season had been dry, his wife had kept the gardens, both the flowers here in front of the house, and the vegetables in the back, growing beautifully. Two dogs raced out from behind the house, barking. A quick shout out the window had them quieting, but they still raced wildly about, tails moving non-stop, welcoming their master home. He quickly rolled his window up and parked next to the Cavalier in front of the garage, which they rarely used in the summer. He got out and the dogs began jumping on him. "Bad dogs," he said halfheartedly. "You know you're not supposed to do that!" The black and white Border Collie Ricky and the Rottweiler Grizz ignored him, trying to jump up his 6 foot length to lick his face. They nearly succeeded; Grizz had the size and Ricky had the bounce. He made his way around the house to the side door, noticing as he did the distant flash of lightning in the Northeast. For a moment he felt hope that the storm would move this way, bringing rain. But he knew it was the wrong direction. Most of their storms came from the west. He stepped into the mudroom, where the light was also on waiting for him, leaving the dogs outside; they only got to come in during the frigid nights of winter. He stepped out of his work boots, setting them by the door next to a smaller pair of work boots, two pairs of cowboy boots, and two tiny pairs of shoes. He removed his holster from his belt, took out the gun, removed its clip, then put the gun back into the holster. He stepped over to a high cupboard and placed the ammunition clip inside, locking the door. The gun, empty of all ammunition, would be placed in the drawer next to the bed with his wife's, which was also empty. This ritual had started more than three years ago, ever since his son had started crawling. This house, this town, was the first place he had felt comfortable living unarmed since he was a child. He left the mudroom and entered the kitchen, flipping the light off behind him. He moved carefully through the dark room, intent on the light showing from around the corner in the living room, his sock covered feet almost soundless on the linoleum. He knew there would be something to eat in the fridge, but he had eaten with one of his deputies, Lucas, earlier, and he wasn't hungry...at least not for food. Entering the living room, he grimaced at the sight that beheld him. "Samson! Down!" His voice was quite, but firm. The little grey and white Shih Tzu glared at him from the couch, but jumped down anyway. With his tail between his legs, he wandered over to the pet bed, where the gold and white Pekinese, Delilah, lay, her little mouth open and panting in the warm night, her long tail wagging. "And stay down," he said to the little dog before switching off the light and heading up the dark stairs. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark again as he peeked into the first room he passed, the door only half closed. His four-year-old son lay sprawled on his bed, the covers pushed off both him and the bed. Though they had an air-conditioner downstairs, the cool air had a hard time reaching the upstairs bedrooms. One of the modern amenities the house had lacked when they bought it was central air. He smiled as the boy moved slightly, sighing in his sleep, mussing his dark hair more than it already was. Quietly, he leaned out and started up the hall to the next door, which was also half open. He stepped inside this room, walking carefully over to the crib in the center of the room. His six-month-old daughter slept here. She lay on her belly, her dark hair damp from sweat. He brought his hand down to wipe her forehead gently, trying not to wake her, and was relieved to find her forehead cool, despite the sweat. It was just the heat and not a fever. Little Marisa had been sick two weeks ago with the chicken pox, which she had gotten from her brother. She was recovering fine, but he still worried. He bent over the railing of the crib and placed a kiss on the baby's head. He checked to make sure the baby monitor was on, then left the room. His final stop was the bedroom directly across from Marisa's. He entered the room and headed directly for the bathroom, not turning on the light until the door was closed. Setting the gun on the counter, he quickly stripped off his clothes down to his boxers, relieved himself, then quickly washed up at the sink. He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. At forty-five, he was still a handsome man, or so his wife told him, and he had to admit he was aging well, though he still thought his nose was too big for his face. The lines around his eyes and mouth were more prominent than they had been five years ago, but she reassured him that they were there not because of age, but because he had learned to laugh more. His hair was shorter than ever, almost military short, and he had started to wear a beard during the winter, which kept his face warm, shaving it when spring rolled around. He had changed a lot in five years. His eyes had changed the most, he thought. No longer did they carry that deep depression that had followed him since he was twelve. There was still a hint of sadness about them; that wasn't unusual given the horrors he had experienced in his life. But there was a calmness, a contentment, now. He was happy. And not at all afraid to show it. With a small smile still on his face, he left the bathroom, grabbing the gun and flipping off the light at the same time. He walked toward the bed, where his wife slept. He looked at her while he placed his weapon in the drawer next to the bed. She had her back to him, her long red hair twisted in a braid. Like her son, she had pushed the covers off of herself, and the tee-shirt she wore, his tee-shirt, had worked its way upward, exposing her legs, her simple cotton panties, and her lower back. Including the tattoo. With a smirk, he turned back toward the door, closing it. He didn't lock it, not when there was a chance their son might need them, but the boy already knew to knock and ask to come in if the door was closed. It gave his parents at least some time to reorganize themselves. He moved back to the bed, turning the baby monitor up so they could hear Marisa despite any noise they might make, slipped out of his boxers and slid onto the bed behind his wife. He was already half aroused. Even after five years of marriage, all he had to do was think about her. God, he was lucky. He stretched out behind her small form, wrapping his arm around her, and began to nuzzle her neck. She sighed. "Mulder?" He smiled against her skin. She was always the one who had to remind them not to use 'those' names, but when she was tired or stressed or angry, she often slipped. "No," he whispered against her ear, then took the rim gently between his teeth. "Oops," she breathed, then she pushed her bottom against him. "Sorry." He chuckled, knowing she would probably say it again before they were done. Even after five years, their subconscious refused to deny their real identities. And that was okay, just as long as they only slipped in private. Even then, they were getting better at calling each other by their current first names. She hardly ever called him 'Fox' at certain...significant...moments like she used to. Of course, that could be because she had, after days of cajoling, convinced him to name their son Fox. She once told him it was a little strange to be shouting out her son's name during sex, especially since he hadn't even been conceived that way. "Mmmmm," she breathed as his hand slipped underneath her shirt to toy with her breasts. "The kids?" she asked. "All is well," he mumbled. "Though we should consider getting air-conditioning up here. Fox's bedding was on the floor. And Mishka was sweating like a pig." Mishka was his pet name for their daughter. "Pigs don't sweat," she quipped. "Did you check for fever?" "Yes," he told her. "She's fine." He began to pull down her panties. "Can I have these off, please?" She willingly helped him slide the underwear down her legs. A touch between her legs told him she was more than ready. Without further ado, he slid into her from behind, bringing her right leg back over his. "What ever happened to foreplay?" she said on a moan. "You tell me," he countered. "What the heck were you dreaming about before I got here?" "What else?" she whispered. He smiled, knowing the answer. "Harrison Ford." She squealed as he pinched her nipple. "Very funny." Talking stalled as his movements increased in intensity. She rocked back against him, moaning in that way she had that made him crazy. Their coupling lasted much longer than the foreplay had, ending in powerful climaxes that had them breathing hard and sweating more. Without another word, he pulled away from her, knowing it was too hot to cuddle, and let himself drift. "Mulder?" Her sleepy voice caused him to open his eyes and look at her. She had turned to face him. "Hmmmm?" "Work?" He smiled. "Free for the weekend. Lucas is handling it." She smiled back at him, then closed her eyes and fell asleep. He sighed and closed his own eyes. Tomorrow would be a busy day, but a good kind of busy. They were driving to Rapid for brunch, then they were spending the day in the Hills. They planned on stopping at Mt. Rushmore. And Reptile Gardens was at the top of the list, too. Even Mishka would love the funny animals there. Maybe, if they had time, they could stop at the Rock. They hadn't been there since Fox was Mishka's age. Sunday, his wife would take Fox and attend mass at St. Joseph's in Bad River, and they would spend the afternoon playing outside, in the shade, being lazy. Perfect. And so Ian Zweifel, Sheriff of McCloud County for the past two years, resident of Lincoln, South Dakota for the past three, husband of Dr. Sara Zweifel, the local pediatrician, for five years, and father of Fox and Marisa, fell asleep. Completely unaware that his idyllic, dreamlike life was about to come to a shattering end. ***** End 1/18