X-Files: Trust No One

by Tim Lebbon

  I pivot to pinpoint the source. This time, Uriel doesn’t vanish so easily. He’s sticky tonight. The scraping is clearer. It’s coming from above me, on the motel roof. Human, animal, wind, it moves along the room’s width. Is it the thing from the garden? Did it follow me?

  Jump or he’ll die.

  I’m not clear if Uriel’s speaking or I’m remembering his words. Is there a difference with dreams? I hear screaming. Is it mine?

  Uriel, am I screaming?

  He vanishes without answering, taking enough shadow with him to change the room. The screaming remains. It’s not just screaming—it’s words, but I can’t make them out. I stumble from bed. When I stand, my head lolls, as if my lower body’s awake, but the rest of me hasn’t caught up. Before my hand can turn the knob, my forehead bangs the door.

  “Ow!”

  At least I’m more awake now. Outside, the air smells less of mold and bleach, but it’s still too thick to be refreshing. Peggy White stands in the parking lot, wearing a white housecoat, angel sleeves marred by old cigarette burns. She’s the one screaming. Groggy reporters surround her, but keep their distance, as if she’s a tiger.

  “It took my baby!” she roars. “That thing took Maggie!”

  Apparently I’m skeptical even half-asleep. I consider the possibility she’s faking.

  The nearest reporter’s hair is a mess, yet he managed to get on a tie. His cameraman adjusts the lens for a tighter shot. “The alien kidnapped your daughter?”

  “I don’t know what the hell it was!”

  “Can you describe...?”

  Peggy snaps. She lashes out. Polished nails rake across the reporter’s face.

  “It’s your fault, all of you! I’ll kill you!”

  I move to intervene, but there’s no further violence. She collapses and sobs convulsively. One of them kneels beside her. Another gives her a water bottle. The camera keeps shooting.

  I no longer think she’s lying.

  Unnoticed, maybe because I’m still in my bathrobe, I scan the roof. A pattern in the damaged shingles, real or not, leads toward the trees. There, a patch of white peeks from the shorn bark of a newly cracked branch.

  I no longer doubt the thing was here.

  Carrying a child might slow it down. It may even need to rest. The most reasonable course of action would be to run after it, calling the sheriff as I go. But I don’t.

  Instead, for the first time in my life, there’s something I just know.

  Barefoot, I run to my rental car. As I drive, I almost feel the story of Maggie’s kidnapping nipping at my heels, spreading from the motel to the street, where hundreds wait to catch the panic. Speeding through the center of town, I honk to warn the crowd. I swerve, skim a klieg light, but barely slow down.

  Past the outskirts, I’m doing eighty. The road ahead is empty, until the headlights hit a black sedan sitting catty-corner, blocking my path. Someone in a dark suit stands by its open door, trying to wave me down. At this speed, he’s mostly a blur. He could just as easily be a well-dressed hitchhiker or a dapper Lizard Man.

  Since meeting Mulder four years ago, I can’t count how many times I’ve been on a lonely road only to have the driver of a mysterious black sedan try to wave me down. Usually, I stop. This time, I don’t. He leaps out of the way. Tires squeal and dirt churns as I leave the road long enough to maneuver around the sedan. Whoever it is will follow, but after a sharp right, nothing’s visible in my rearview mirror for the rest of the trip to Al’s Topiary.

  *****

  AL’S TOPIARY GARDEN

  ELIZABETHVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA

  FRIDAY, 4:12 a.m.

  I grab a flashlight from the glove compartment and head out. The beam dances along the abstract vegetation. As I make my way, a waxing moon pokes from behind the clouds. The pebble-covered paths hurt my feet, but I can’t slow down. When I reach the flat field beyond the garden, my soles are grateful. I search both my memory and the terrain, trying to find the spot I stood on a few hours ago, when my fingers caught a cool breeze.

  I think I find it. It’s terribly soft, nearly not there at all, but as I follow the feeling, step after step, it gets stronger. When I pause beside a lone cypress, a wave of rising air curls along the tips of my toes. The flashlight beam reveals the edge of a ragged hole. The moonlight hints at its far side, five feet away.

  Jump.

  The voice is so clear and strong it makes me feel as if I’ve been yanked back to the motel bed. I even feel the mattress lump under my left shoulder and smell the heavy bleach in the pillow case. For an instant, I’m not sure if I’m really there or here. But then I feel the soft earth beneath my feet and the updraft from the hole chills the sweat on my cheeks.

  I’m here all right.

  And again, Uriel says, Jump.

  So I do.

  Eyes closed, I jump.

  The fall is a flash, an instant that goes by too quickly to ever recall. Hitting the hard ground, curling and rolling into a cold, shallow puddle seems to take much, much longer. Nothing is broken, aside from the flashlight, so I stand. Moonlight reflects from the puddle up into salt crystal deposits along the walls. I can make out what’s in front of me, but not much more.

  I am about to conclude that I’ve gone insane, that there’s no point to what I’ve done, when the plinking of water drops falling from my soaked bathrobe’s hem melds with the sound of a sniffling child.

  “Maggie?” I whisper.

  I’m not sure why I whisper, but her response is even quieter: “Help.”

  I take a few steps, maybe three, and then, at long last, see clearly, see it clearly. It’s perched on a flat rock, bobbing, breathing heavily, its long grey arms and legs wrapped tightly around the girl. It’s not just that I see it. I recognize it for what it is.

  It’s Mulder.

  The prosthesis enlarging his head has been torn along the forehead. One huge black eye, having fallen out, lies beside him like a giant’s lost contact lens. He gasps, he’s hurting, deep in the grip of some delusion.

  “Scully?” he says, gulping down air. “I found her. I found Samantha.” Gently, sweetly, he kisses the forehead of the shivering, terrified child. “See? She’s still so young. Nothing’s been lost. Nothing.”

  “Mulder, try not to talk. Can I see Samantha... please?”

  Head bobbing like a broken doll, he smiles. “Skeptic. You have to see if she’s all right, don’t you? She is. She’s fine. But, sure.” He let’s go. “Go on Samantha. You can trust Scully. She’s a friend.”

  Before Maggie can leave his lap, a voice shouts down from the world above.

  “Hello? Agent? Are you all right?”

  Mulder grabs Maggie, covering her mouth. “Shh...” he says, petting her.

  I look up into Assistant Director Skinner’s agitated face. Seeing only me, unharmed, he says, “I caught a late flight, drove all night to bring you the file on the man who was shot and you nearly run me over.” But then he catches himself. “Agent, are you alone down there?”

  *****

  TRINITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1:08 p.m.

  Three days later, Mulder remains in the private wing of a Washington hospital, the extra expense covered by no less than the CIA. While Mulder understands the basics of what happened, I’ve yet to share all I’ve learned. I don’t want to create any anxiety that might exacerbate his lingering disorientation. I will, of course, eventually tell him everything.

  According to the file Skinner brought, early in Mulder’s career, while still assigned to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, he was respected enough for the Central Intelligence Agency to request his opinion. They were considering a revival of MKUltra, the infamous mind control program halted in 1973. A Dr. Jacob Elman was convinced that a combination of hypnosis and drugs could make a given subject perform actions they might otherwise consider abhorrent, say, a covert assassination—on command. Not only that, Elman believed he could convin
ce them they were someone else entirely.

  Beyond the fiction of The Manchurian Candidate, there is reason to suspect this is actually possible. We now know that under hypnosis, individuals lose track of both their normal judgment and their sense of identity. At the same time, their ability to focus on imaginary situations increases significantly. But a young, idealistic Mulder, presenting arguments both pragmatic and ethical, effectively scuttled the project and ruined Elman’s career. Destitute, Elman dropped out of sight.

  From there, I surmise he somehow continued his research, and, achieving success, embarked on a plan for revenge. I can’t imagine it was difficult to learn of the reputation “Spooky” Mulder had acquired. Providing suitable bait in the form of a few staged alien encounters (perhaps wearing the elaborate costume himself), he lured Mulder into a trap. Then, in that awful cage, Elman convinced Mulder he was the very thing he’d spent his life trying to find—an alien.

  I don’t know if Elman’s ultimate goal was to vindicate his career while only humiliating Mulder, or if, in the end, he planned to kill him, perhaps by ordering him to attack the police. I do know that whatever information was found in Elman’s South Carolina home was confiscated by the CIA, and is now available only on a need-to-know basis. AD Skinner tried to follow up, but apparently the FBI does not need to know.

  Maintaining such an extreme altered state must have required regular drugs as well as psychological reinforcement. With Elman dead, the effects dissipated. Mistaking Maggie White for his lost sister was an indication Mulder’s true identity was returning.

  This leaves an elephant in the room; the faux alien’s astonishing acrobatic feats. I have no definite answers, but offer three possibilities. Some, none, or all may be true.

  First, high levels of epinephrine were found in Mulder’s blood, indicating that artificial adrenaline was part of Elman’s concoction. Second, anecdotal evidence suggests the existence of what’s called hysterical strength. The common example is a panicked mother lifting a heavy car off her trapped child. Such feats usually occur in life-and-death situations, but there are exceptions. Lastly, there is belief itself, a powerful motivator. If a stage show hypnotist can turn a wall-flower into an expressive dancer, Mulder’s own conviction that he was capable of wild leaps would, at the very least, make accomplishing them more likely.

  In any event, a price was paid. In addition to a series of sprains, a torn ligament and two bruised bones, the medical examination showed that Agent Mulder had experienced three mild heart attacks. Fortunately, the myocardial infarctions left no major damage—though I check again every time I visit.

  As much as we crave the new, in the end, our very sense of self is based on routine. As Mulder recovers, it’s the familiar things about him, about us, even those traits I find irritating, that give me the most comfort. While he seems more himself, he has developed a tendency to repeat himself, which I hope will vanish in time. Today, for instance, he greets me by saying the same thing he said yesterday, and the day before:

  “Y’know, Scully, being the hunted instead of the hunter gave me a whole new perspective.”

  Rather than point it out, I ask, “How so?”

  The last two times, he described the profound loneliness of trying to make his way in a completely unrecognizable world.

  This time, though, he surprises me. Instead of confessing profound angst, he twists his head and squints at me. “Wait a minute...”

  His eyes go saucer-wide. “Whoa! Has your hair always been that red?”

  “Uh... yes?”

  “It’s amazing,” he says. “Absolutely amazing.”

  I’m about to thank him, but then he looks around, as delighted by the drops of moisture against the ice-pitcher and the sunlight against the windows as he is by my hair color.

  “Everything looks so new. Must be a holdover from Elman’s drugs, but I guess that’s a plus, huh?”

  Before I answer, I think about my leap of faith. While I suspected there was a cave, I’d no reason to think Mulder would be there. So, was it my subconscious, or did that knowledge come from somewhere else? Maybe my personal sin, if such things exist, is being unable to say I don’t know when I can. But that’s Mulder’s sin as well, isn’t it?

  It’s a monster!

  No it’s not!

  As for Uriel, I decide not to decide.

  After all, I am Starbuck, keeping the ship running while Mulder’s mad Ahab tells it where to go. I am Starbuck. The ship must survive or all is lost.

  As I try to see whatever it is Mulder’s seeing in this horribly boring hospital room, I tell him, “Yes. I’d definitely count that as a plus.”

  The End

  NON GRATUM ANUS RODENTUM

  By Brian Keene

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  23rd JUNE, 1994, 9:46 a.m.

  As the hallway lights dimmed and the janitorial crew began their nightly rounds, Assistant Director Walter Skinner considered going for a run. Boxing and jogging had always been hobbies for him, but recently, jogging had become something much more—an escape. In the last few months, the public sidewalks and monuments he jogged around had provided a solace and comfort he couldn’t find at home or at work. Given the disarray in both his personal and professional lives, those few moments of peace were something he desperately needed.

  He glanced down at his desk. To the left was a framed photograph taken sixteen years ago on the day of his and Sharon’s wedding. To the right sat an ashtray overflowing with stained Morley cigarette butts. Both the picture and the ashtray made his stomach hurt. He had a physical coming up, something the Bureau required annually, and although he was in solid shape for a man his age, Skinner already knew what the doctor would find—an ulcer. The usual reasons would be cited. Bacterial infection. Stress. Poor diet. Smoking (which he didn’t do). Drinking (which he did). A host of other sources. But Skinner knew what the real culprits were. He was looking at them right now.

  Since coming home from Vietnam and getting clean, Skinner had lived each day like it mattered. The war and his time in the Bureau had taught him that anything could happen at any time. It didn’t matter how prepared you thought were, or how confident you felt. Things could—and did—change on a dime. He’d heard a rock song once, in which part of the lyrics had been that changes weren’t permanent, but change was. There was truth in that. Skinner tried to treat every minute with purpose. He tried to enjoy every good moment, be it something as simple as a hug from his wife or as complicated as helping to bring down a child pornography ring. He cherished those moments, and banked on them during the bad times.

  Lately, however, it seemed like there was nothing but bad. His marriage was crumbling. Looking back, it hadn’t been good in a long time, but it felt now as if the damage had already been done, with no hope of reprieve or repair. Separate bank accounts. Separate friends. Separate lives. When he and Sharon were home at the same time, which wasn’t often these days, they were like strangers. He remembered their early years together, when they’d talk for hours about everything. Now, their conversations were polite but forced and clipped, focusing on trivial inanities. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d touched, and saying “I love you” had become as perfunctory and rote as saying “Bless you” after someone sneezed.

  Like others, he could have lost himself in his work, except that this was an even bigger source of stress. As an Assistant Director, making choices was part of Skinner’s job description. Now, he was stuck in the middle between a resentful employee and a duplicitous superior who usurped the chain of command and whose goals and reasons were cloaked in a frustrating shroud of secrecy and potential maliciousness—the same superior who had filled up the ashtray on Skinner’s desk.

  Logically, Skinner knew that Agent Mulder didn’t blame him for the closure of the so-called X-Files, and his subsequent reassignment to general duties (which currently involved a wiretap detail). Those orders had come down from the top of the FBI’s executive branch, prompted no doubt by di
rectives from Skinner’s unofficial smoking overseer. But as Mulder’s immediate superior, Skinner nevertheless bore the brunt of the agent’s condescension, insolence, and simmering resentment with the Bureau itself. He understood the younger man’s anger and disillusionment. He felt them, too. It was heartbreaking. Mulder had been one of the finest, most promising agents in the Bureau’s sixty-year history. He’d already made a name for himself before even graduating from the academy. Now, those talents were being wasted because of the smoking man’s murky agenda. When Skinner had pressed his superiors on the reasons why, he’d been met with the same stonewalling and frustrating silence that Mulder himself railed against.

  And yet, no matter how sympathetic he was to Mulder’s grievances, to protect the agent—as well as Mulder’s partner, Scully—Skinner had to disassociate himself from those emotions and straddle the line that Mulder kept crossing, becoming a barrier of sorts. Because if he didn’t, Skinner had a very strong suspicion that being reassigned to general duties wouldn’t be the worst thing to befall Fox Mulder. And so, Skinner spent each day choosing not to choose, caught between two very different masters and trying to provide a balance between their disparate interests. He wondered how much longer he could hold that position, defending a line that was about to collapse in upon itself.

  Yes, he decided, a jog would do him good. A late-night run under the stars might give him some perspective, or at the very least, a few moments of reprieve. Good. Bad. The stars were indifferent. The universe didn’t care about a person’s trials, triumphs, or tribulations. The universe just was.

  Maybe he’d be able to sleep afterward, although he doubted it. Before their marriage had begun to fall apart, Sharon had been after him to see a doctor at a sleep disorder clinic. He’d awake shrieking, clutching the sheets, bathed in sweat. He told Sharon he had dreams about Vietnam, and that wasn’t a lie. But the truth was far more than simply dreaming about the war. Skinner suffered from recurring nightmares of an old woman he’d encountered only once in Vietnam. He’d never told Sharon about that meeting. Indeed, he’d never spoken of it to anyone.