X-Files: Trust No One

by Tim Lebbon

  “It has to be the acid,” Skinner whispered, shaking his head.

  “No,” Ramirez gasped. “It’s real, all right.”

  Skinner quickly rummaged through the chests and lockers. He found some clean clothes and ripped them into rags. Then he began binding Ramirez’s wounds. The man bled from over a dozen bites and scratches. The deepest was on his chest, where the rat-man’s incisors had left a large, ragged puncture. The soldier’s left cheek hung down, the flap of skin moving every time Ramirez tried to talk.

  “Stay with me,” Skinner told him. “And stay awake.”

  “It was denned up in here,” Ramirez said. “Must have killed the others not too long ago. I interrupted its snack. Took every round I had to kill it.”

  Skinner glanced back at the body again, and was disturbed to see it changing. The rat-like features had begun to fade, and its size seemed to be shrinking.

  “I’m more messed up than I thought I was,” he muttered.

  “Speak up, Walt. Can’t hear you.”

  “I’m going to have to move you. Can you crawl?”

  Ramirez shrugged. “I don’t think so. Fucked my leg up pretty bad.”

  “Okay. Wait here.”

  Skinner hurried back through the tunnel until he’d reached the section with the guard holes on each side. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted.

  “I need a medic down here!”

  His pulse quickened when he heard Lybeck and some of the others shout an affirmative. Then he crawled back to Ramirez. As he reentered the room, he noticed that the rat-thing was now just a dead Viet Cong. It still wore the shredded uniform, but the tail and all the other fantastical features were gone. Instead, there was just a bullet-riddled corpse. Skinner nodded in affirmation, convinced now that it had indeed been the drugs in his system.

  “Walt?”

  “Yeah, buddy.” He returned to the soldier’s side. “I’m right here.”

  “Stay with me a while?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Skinner sat down beside him, with his back to the wall. Ramirez rested his head on Skinner’s shoulder, while Skinner held his hand and promised him everything would be okay. It wasn’t the first time he’d held the hand of an injured man. He remembered one Marine, whose body had essentially been turned inside out by a claymore. Skinner had held his hand and told him it would be okay, knowing all the while that the man was dying. At the time, he’d considered it a prayer of sorts, hoping that, if his mangled comrade couldn’t hear him, then maybe God would, and that He would see to it that the man was okay, after all.

  He knew better now. And yet, he comforted Ramirez as best he could, and the two of them were still praying when the rest of the squad arrived.

  *****

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, 11:51 p.m.

  Skinner arrived on foot at the crime scene, his personal sidearm concealed beneath his coat, and the newspaper clipping still stuffed in his pocket. The air blew cold, tossing trash and leaves down the sidewalk. Yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze like party streamers. Other than four homeless people, the street was almost deserted—no cars or pedestrians, although both could be heard blocks away. Urban ghosts—unseen but audible. Three of the homeless were huddled together in a swaddling of filthy blankets and sleeping bags. The fourth sat apart from the others, taking furtive, cautious sips from a brown-bagged bottle of liquor.

  Skinner unfolded the clipping and approached the first group—two men and a woman. They eyed him warily, muttering among themselves and refusing to make eye contact. Skinner was struck by how young the three of them were. Still in their twenties, he was certain, although it was obvious that living on the streets was beginning to age them.

  “You smell like five-oh,” one of the men muttered. “Don’t hassle us. We’re not hurting anybody.”

  “I’m not here to hassle you. I’m just looking for someone.”

  “Are you looking for Tony?” The girl sat up, suddenly interested. “Or Frankie, maybe? Seems like everybody is looking for them.”

  “Never mind her,” the first man said. “She hasn’t made sense since that Herod thing.”

  Skinner struggled to hide his frustration, and forced a smile. “Herod? You mean the serial-killer? I work for the people who caught him.”

  “You got Herod off the street? Well, shit, dude. Have a drink with us. You guys slide the fuck over and make some room for him.”

  The young man began nudging his companions, both of whom groaned at the request.

  “They take us at night, you know,” the girl said. “Big lights come down and then, whoosh, we’re gone. They’re doing experiments and stuff. That’s why I can’t have no babies!”

  Where’s Agent Mulder when I need him? Skinner thought.

  Skinner held out the newspaper photo and pointed at Ramirez. “I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

  The three of them squinted at the photo.

  “What did he do?” the younger man asked.

  “He didn’t do anything. He’s an old friend, and I’m trying to find him.”

  “Ain’t seen him, dude. Hard to tell for sure from that picture. That paper is kind of crinkled.”

  Skinner pulled out his wallet and produced a ten dollar bill. “How about this kind of paper? Can you tell from this?”

  The homeless man smiled. “I’ll take your money, but I still haven’t seen the guy.”

  Skinner studied them for a moment. Then, sighing, he handed the younger man the money.

  “Thanks, dude. You sure you don’t want to party with us?”

  “Yeah,” the girl chimed in. “Maybe the lights will come back tonight.”

  “No thanks.” He nodded at the fourth homeless man. “What about him? Do you think he might be able to help me?”

  The younger man shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. He keeps to himself. Doesn’t talk to anybody.”

  Muttering a quick thanks, Skinner approached the loner and repeated the inquiry. The homeless man studied the picture carefully, and then made a small whimpering sound. He looked up at Skinner with hollow, sunken eyes and then pointed at the manhole cover.

  “He’s down there?”

  The man nodded.

  “You’re sure of it?”

  Another nod.

  “Shit.”

  Skinner handed the man his last ten dollar bill and then approached the sewer. Four stanchions surrounded the manhole. The breeze picked up again, causing the police tape to flutter again. Skinner debated his next course of action. He was an Assistant Director at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and yet here he was, contemplating disturbing a crime scene and venturing into the sewers beneath the nation’s capital in the middle of the night. It occurred to him that no one even knew where he was. He wondered if Sharon would even notice that he wasn’t home yet. If something happened to him, how long before she’d worry? If she worried at all...

  He turned his head from side to side, cracking his back and neck. Then, he pushed his glasses up on his face and ducked beneath the caution tape. He had difficulty getting his fingers beneath the manhole cover, but he managed to pry up one end, and then lifted, grunting with the strain. The heavy lid clanged loudly as he dragged it aside. Skinner glanced around, but the street was still deserted. The only people paying attention were his four new companions.

  “Good luck,” the young guy called as Skinner climbed into the hole. “Hope you find your friend.”

  The loner said nothing, but his frightened, mournful eyes were the last thing Skinner saw before descending below.

  *****

  After climbing down the ladder, Skinner realized too late that he should have brought a flashlight. The streetlights above filtered down through the hole, providing a small amount of illumination. It wasn’t enough to clearly see his surroundings, but his vision adjusted to the point where he wouldn’t have to stumble around blind. He was able to stand at his full height.

  It was w
armer in the corrugated steel passage than it had been topside, but the atmosphere was humid and smelled like rotten eggs. The air seemed to cling to his face like wet cheesecloth. It reminded Skinner of Vietnam, and the night he’d met Ramirez. Here he was, years later, plunging into a tunnel again in search of the man.

  He unholstered his 1911. The weight of the weapon felt good in his hand—reassuring. Skinner glanced back and forth, wondering which way to go. The pipe stretched in both directions, and he saw nothing but shadows on either end. After a moment, he started forward. His shoes splashed in water. It was only ankle deep, but warm and tepid. The rotten egg stench grew stronger. Skinner wrinkled his nose, wondering what he was stepping in. He pushed the thought away and slogged ahead.

  The pipe ran in a straight, horizontal line. The only sound was the steady, monotonous drip of water. The darkness was broken every few yards by shafts of light from sewer gratings and other openings. On a whim, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. When he flipped it open, he was surprised to discover that he still had service, albeit only one bar.

  He wondered how he would explain himself if he was caught down here. What if he encountered a sanitation worker, or a police officer? He’d be hard pressed to explain why he had violated a crime scene, let alone offer a reason why an Assistant Director from the FBI was stumbling around in the sewers beneath Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night.

  Then he heard a scream.

  The tunnel seemed to vibrate from the noise. The shriek echoed all around him, the sound continuing on even after its issuer had stopped. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it had come from directly ahead of him. Skinner pressed forward, quickening his pace. His shoes splashed loudly in the water. After a moment, the pipe began to curve. He rounded the bend, and nearly screamed himself.

  There, illuminated by a shaft of streetlight filtering down from above, crouched an acid flashback from Vietnam. It was a man-rat, except much bigger than the one he had hallucinated all those years ago. Tattered rags clung to its hairy, sleekly-muscled frame, and something shiny and silver dangled around its neck. Its pointed snout and coarse whiskers were slick with blood. So were the long, filthy talons at its fingertips. Another set of black claws protruded from the toes of its boots. The beast’s pointed ears twitched. The stench wafting off the man-rat was terrible, even worse than the smell of the sewer.

  The creature was hunched over the still-twitching body of a homeless man. The victim had been disemboweled, and steam rose from the open wound. Horrified, Skinner realized that the man was still alive, even as the were-rat reached into the open cavity with its two clawed hands and pulled out more warm organs to feast upon.

  The monster gazed up at him and squealed. The sound was much like the feral shriek he and Lybeck had heard in Vietnam. But while that one had echoed of pain, this one promised anger.

  “Don’t move,” Skinner said. His voice was barely a whisper. Suddenly, his mouth seemed to have gone dry. “Keep your hands up and step away from him.”

  The creature blinked its beady black eyes and tensed. There was a malevolent intelligence in that stare.

  Skinner’s attention was drawn once again to the silver object hanging around the beast’s neck. He realized it was a pair of dogtags.

  “Ramirez? Is that you?”

  At this, the rat-thing seemed confused. It glanced down at its unfinished meal, and then back up at Skinner. Then, with another squeal, it leapt to its feet.

  Skinner fired two shots, aiming for center mass. The creature tumbled backward against the pipe. Then, it pivoted, lashing out with its massive tail. The appendage struck Skinner in the chest, knocking him to the ground. His handgun skittered away in the darkness.

  Gasping, Skinner sat up. His pants and coat were soaked with foul sewer water, and his glasses were fogged over. He hurriedly wiped the slime from them as best as he could, and then scrambled around for his weapon. He found it lying slightly above the water level. When he turned back, the creature was gone, but he could hear the echoes of its talons against metal as it fled.

  He bent over and checked the victim’s pulse, not expecting to find one. Sure enough, the man was dead. Rising to his feet, Skinner hurried off in pursuit. He noticed a splash of blood against the side of the tunnel, and knew that he’d wounded the—whatever it was. It couldn’t be real. There wasn’t enough light down here, and the situation was enough like what had happened in Vietnam that his mind was playing tricks on him. If Agent Scully had been here, she’d have verified the same thing.

  Soon, the sound of his quarry’s scrabbling ceased. Skinner slowed his pace, wondering if the killer had stopped, and was waiting to ambush him, or if it had given him the slip and escaped. When he rounded another turn, he saw that neither had been the case.

  Ramirez sat in the water, legs outstretched, shoulders slumped, resting his chin upon his chest. He was dressed in the same rags the creature had worn, but they were looser now, barely clinging to his frame. The dogtags were still around his neck. At the sound of Skinner’s approach, he raised his head wearily. His mouth and hands were smeared with blood. More blood streamed from the bullet wounds in his chest.

  “Ramirez? Is that really you?”

  The injured man frowned. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Skinner. The Marine. We met in Vietnam.”

  “W-walt?” Despite his pain, Ramirez grinned. “Holy shit! It really is you, isn’t it?”

  Skinner approached him cautiously, weapon at the ready. Ramirez shook his head.

  “You don’t need that, Walt. Not anymore. I’m dying. A lot of the shit from movies isn’t true. You don’t need silver bullets. Regular bullets work just fine.”

  “Ramirez... I...”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. I want this. This is good.”

  Skinner holstered his weapon and knelt down beside him. He pulled out his phone and saw that he still had a weak signal.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll call for help. Just stay with me.”

  “No,” Ramirez wheezed. “Don’t call anyone. Just stay with me.”

  “Bullshit. We need to get you help or you’re going to die.”

  “I want to die, Walt. But I don’t want to die alone. Just stay with me, okay? Please? Stay with me, like before.”

  Nodding, Skinner slipped the phone back into his pocket. Then, without hesitation, he reached out, took Ramirez’s bloody hand, and held it.

  “What... what happened to you?”

  Ramirez coughed blood. “It was back in that tunnel. You should have let me die that night, but I don’t blame you, Walt. You were just trying to help. But when I got attacked... the bite... it infected me, I guess. It didn’t happen right away. They medevac’d me out of the jungle, and I did two weeks in a hospital in Saigon before they shipped me back to the world. Before the end of the month, I was back in the States. And that’s when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  “The change. It comes once a month, kinda like a woman’s period, I guess. Doesn’t seem to be connected to the moon or anything like that. Sometimes it happens early. Other times it comes late. But once a month...”

  He broke off as another round of coughing racked his body. Blood flew from his mouth and nose. When the spasm ended, he gasped for breath.

  “Once a month, I turn into this. I don’t want to... but I can’t help it. And it’s hungry... it gets so hungry, Walt...”

  “Just rest,” Skinner choked, the words catching in his throat.

  “Soon... I will. But I need to tell... need ... I’ve done some... bad things, Walt. Some really bad shit. Worse than... worse than anything we did over there. I’ve been... trapped all this time. Caught between two masters... you know? Me... and the other. And when it takes control... when it takes control, I can’t help myself... I feel so goddamned guilty... I don’t want to be trapped... anymore... but I couldn’t... I couldn’t make the choice... myself.”

  He trailed off,
and his breath hitched in his chest. Skinner squeezed his hand, certain that he was dead, but then Ramirez wheezed.

  “Do you... understand, Walt?”

  Closing his eyes, Skinner nodded. “I do.”

  Ramirez squeezed his hand and smiled.

  “That’s... twice you’ve... saved me now... jarhead.”

  Then he stopped breathing again, this time for good.

  Skinner pulled him close, and wept in the darkness.

  *****

  “I want to know what happened down there.”

  The speaker angrily jabbed a smoldering Morley cigarette butt into the ashtray on Skinner’s desk. Then he shook another cigarette out of his pack and lit it.

  “I told you. He was responsible for attacking and murdering several people.”

  “I want details, Mr. Skinner.”

  Skinner nodded at a manila folder on the desk. “If you want details, they’re all right there in the police report.”

  “You know damn well what I mean. You don’t seem to appreciate your position. Perhaps I need to remind you.”

  “If you have a problem with my performance, maybe you should take it up with the Director. Or talk to Security Chief Blevins. I understand he’s on good terms with you.”

  The smoking man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means maybe you should go hang out in his office. I’m busy.”

  “I see.” He exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “Perhaps I’ll have to look into your workload.”

  Skinner shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. Then he pulled the ashtray toward him.

  “One other thing. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in here.”

  “There are worse things than can happen to a person than secondhand smoke, Mr. Skinner.”

  He reached across the desk and snuffed the half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. Then, without another word, he left, slamming the office door behind him.