From: "aka "Jake"" <nejake@tds.net>
Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2000 09:57:57 -0500
Subject: X-Files fanfic: "Annelid"
Source: direct

NEW: Annelid (1/1)

Title: Annelid (1/1)
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: R (R for Language and Violence)
Classification: X (X-File)
Spoilers: Vague references through Season 7
Keywords: UST
Summary: "Like a gold nugget in a prospector's pan, the case landed
serendipitously on my desk. An X-File to rival the Loch Ness Monster, El
Chupacabra or even Bigfoot. And of course, I was thrilled at the possibility
of traveling to a far off place in search of a never-before-seen creature."
-- Fox Mulder in "Annelid"

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of
Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended.
This is for fun, not profit.

Author's notes at end.


ANNELID
By aka "Jake"
__________ 

Somewhere west of Stevens Village, Alaska
12:54 PM

Damn, it's cold. I look back at Scully. She's trailing me by fifty yards at
least, her head down, trying to avoid being sandblasted...er, snow-blasted.
She's watching her feet, careful not to stray from the disappearing tracks
of my snowshoes. An ice-spewing blizzard keeps me scraping the snow from my
goggles. I can barely see Scully as she trudges after me. The blowing snow
causes her to fade in and out of my view like some kind of arctic mothman. 

Of course, I feel plenty guilty for leading her out here.

And what brought us to Alaska in the first place? What mythical beast has me
and my partner risking our lives? 

A snow worm. That's right, a snow worm. 

Well, that's what the shift leader at Pump Station 6 called the unlikely
vermiform when he phoned the Alyeska Pipeline Service Company's headquarters
in Fairbanks two weeks ago. It was big, he said. Twenty feet long. And
white. Fur-covered. Not your average annelid. He also insisted the thing ate
three sled dogs. He claimed it plowed up outta the snow and swallowed the
dogs whole, one at a time. Needless to say, he and the other three crewmen
were getting a tad nervous. They wanted APSC to send a relief crew. Or even
better, send some fat cat CEOs from corporate headquarters. 

Evidently the head honchos back at Fairbanks figured the station's operating
crew was suffering from nothing more than a serious case of cabin fever. Two
weeks on, two weeks off was the customary stint, but this crew had been on
duty for close to five weeks. Why the long shift? Headquarters was arguing
it was close to impossible to find qualified crewmen to work at the pumping
station. After all, Station 6 is situated in one of the most remote
locations along the Trans Alaska Pipeline. Not exactly a popular tour of
duty. 

A couple of days after the disappearing dog act and the wild allegations of
canine-craving worms, the crewmen quit answering their radiophone
altogether. Alyeska finally became worried enough to send somebody out. The
relief team found the original crewmen. What was left of them anyway --
several piles of bones in various locations around the grounds outside the
facility. Malamute skeletons, too. The Alyeska Pipeline Service Company
reeeeally gets peeved when its employees are reduced to little more than a
few neat stacks of tibias and femurs. And not just because the workman's
comp claims are a bitch. APSC has enough environmental zealot watchdogs
sabotaging their property to take the possibility of murder very seriously.
And no one at headquarters was buying the wild worm story.

Well, at least not until the relief team disappeared, too. Suddenly the tale
of the hungry snow worm didn't seem so far-fetched. 

The possibility, remote or not, of a killer annelid certainly put the kybosh
on any volunteers from Fairbanks making a trip out to Station 6 to uncover
the truth. In order to gain a little outside support, Alyeska told the FBI
they suspected terrorist activity. They maintained that any threat to the
Trans Alaska Pipeline was a threat to the security of the nation's largest
domestic oil resource. Of course, the interstate commerce card was the ace
up their corporate sleeve and they weren't opposed to playing it as well.
Gaining the Bureau's assured cooperation, APSC finally brought to light the
previously unmentioned snow worm thing. That's when the case rapidly sunk to
the basement of the Hoover Building. Like a gold nugget in a prospector's
pan, it landed serendipitously on my desk. An X-File to rival the Loch Ness
Monster, El Chupacabra or even Bigfoot. And of course, I was thrilled at the
possibility of traveling to a far off place in search of a never-before-seen
creature. Okay, technically the elusive snow monster had been seen by
several Alyeska employees. But since none of them had survived to tell the
tale, an aura of mystery still surrounded the inimitable beast. Scully,
however, wasn't quite so delighted with the idea of exploring...how did she
put it...the mass hysteria and hallucinatory ravings of several severe
isolation distress sufferers? It's a well-documented fact that Scully and
legendary beasts have about as much chance of mixing as me and AD Kersh at
the next Bureau cotillion. 

Scully also suspected I was confusing Alyeska's snow worm with the Arctic
Ice Core Project we investigated almost six years ago. After being infected
by two-million-year-old worm-like parasites, an entire research team at Icy
Cape had gone mad and killed each other.

"Mulder, you're not talking about acetlycholine-eating worms, are you?"
Scully had asked, one accusatory eyebrow arching with critical confidence.

"Those worms lived in the ice, Scully. And they were tiny," I reminded her.
"The Alyeska worms live in the snow and are large. They eat dogs. And
people."

"Not the chemical secretions of the hypothalamus?"

"No. They don't care much for bones either."

"Hmm."

So we found ourselves back in Alaska pursuing a somewhat different type of
worm. 

I shiver as a bone-chilling wind carries a pall of snow from me to Scully.
She momentarily disappears in the swirling miasma. I wait and try to catch a
glimpse of her closing the gap between us. It's a relief to turn my back on
the blustery weather. Facing Scully, my cheeks get a break from the
unrelenting sting of razor-sharp sleet. Jesus, my face feels like I shaved
with a Cuisinart. Then slapped on a little lemon juice skin bracer for added
zing. 

As always, however, the sight of Scully lessens the painful reality of my
life. 

I can't remember ever feeling this cold. Before we left DC, did I actually
tell Scully a mid-winter trip to the great white north would be refreshing?
Well, minus 27 degrees F is F-ing cold when you toss in wind gusts upwards
of 40 knots, giving you an invigorating wind-chill of...of... well, you do
the arithmetic. My brain turned into a Slurpee at least four miles back.

Oh, Scully. You look so cold.

"How're you doing?"

"Fine, Mulder," she marches past me.

"You need to rest?" I catch up and drape my arm across her shoulders, only
adding to the burden she already carries without complaint on her back.

"No. We're almost there. Aren't we?" Her blue eyes look worried behind her
snow-covered goggles. Christ, her lashes are clumped with ice. Frost coats
her facemask.

"Maybe another mile. Two at most," I lie. Stevens Village is at least ten
miles to the east.

"You're getting frostbite, Mulder," she pauses to tug my mask higher up my
cheeks.

"Ouch!" I push her hand away. My angel of mercy. Inwardly, I thank whoever's
listening that Scully is here with me.

Here. Somewhere close to the 66th parallel. We've been heading east along
the frozen Yukon River for nearly two hours. And how exactly did we get
here? As usual, an unpredictable chain of events pushed us along, until we
ended up in a cold, vast wilderness...without transportation. A familiar
scenario, although this time no aliens are involved and we're on the top of
the planet, not the bottom. Without a plethora of options, we're on foot. On
snowshoes, actually. A mind and body numbing reality necessitated by the
fact that we lost the Artic Cat we were riding. Well, not 'lost' in the
'missing' sense, but...

Maybe I should back up a bit, start over at the beginning...which was the
day before yesterday. 

__________ 

Pump Station 6
Trans Alaska Pipeline
Two Days Earlier

"Hello? Hello?" Scully calls into the deserted pump station. She sets her
duffle bag on the floor. "It's warm in here."

Bob Guifford, Stanley Philp, Will Connelly and I follow Scully into the
station, stomping snow from our boots and depositing our gear next to hers. 

"Power's always on in the pump stations," Bob tells us. Guifford is ASPC's
Director of Safety and Security. And our pilot. A huge man -- six-six, at
least, and two hundred and fifty plus pounds -- he's a likeable guy despite
his imposing size. And he's as comfortable in the captain's seat of a Cessna
206 as a Knicks' fan with a six-pack reclining in a LazyBoy on a Sunday
afternoon wearing nothing but his underwear. Take it from one who knows.

Stanley Philp on the other hand is an acerbic insurance investigator, here
to disprove the validity of Alyeska's claims. He has the personality of a
bull terrier. With his teeth sunk into the pant leg of ASPC, the rat dog has
every intention of pulling the corporate giant down. In the few hours since
we met him, he's managed to hit on Scully at least half a dozen times. Which
irritates the hell out of me. He's making me work awfully hard to hide my
jealousy and I'd like to punch him right in the canines.

Connelly, the youngest member of our group, is a fresh-faced zoology PhD
candidate from UC Davis, specializing in annelids. I had requested a worm
expert accompany us to Alaska and he was more than eager to tag along. His
enthusiasm to get a peek at the enigmatic snow worm actually outstrips mine.
If that's possible.

Abandoning our three companions at the station's front door, Scully and I
immediately start a search of the building for the missing relief crew.
Guifford checks on the communications equipment. 

While Scully investigates the rec room, I give the kitchen a quick sweep.
Finding nothing out of the ordinary, I continue on to the bedrooms. Station
6 is no Motel 6, but the sleeping quarters appear comfortable enough. There
are at least a couple dozen bedrooms, although only a few of the rooms
appear to have been recently occupied. Scully and I meet up again in a
gargantuan bathroom complete with communal showers. 

"Find anything?" Scully scowls at the line of showers, her fists on her
hips.

"Tonight's entertainment," I waggle my eyebrows at her. She rolls her eyes
and resumes her survey of the station. I trail after her, following her into
the office where Guifford is reporting back to headquarters over the
radiophone.

"All the network equipment is working fine," the Security Chief announces
when he's finished checking in with HQ. "Seismic monitoring, remote gate
valve status, in-plant radio, oil spill communications. No problems. Any
sign of the crew?" he asks us.

"Just their gear. Why are there so many bedrooms, by the way?"

"All Alyeska's pump stations were built to house a crew of twenty-five,
although the actual crew size may be as low as ten."

"Why were only four men posted here?"

"This station, along with Stations 2, 8 and 10, are on standby status. Have
been since '97. Don't need more than a skeleton crew."

"That's ironic," I can't help pointing out remembering the crew's bones.
"Why post anybody here at all?"

"To keep the place powered up. Each pump station generates its own
electricity to run the pumps, the topping units, the refrigerated
foundations."

"Refrigerated foundations?"

"Yeah. Keeps the permafrost solid. You don't want the earth melting and
shifting underneath the station. The max daily throughput of crude oil is
more than 2 bbl. A spill would be...undesirable, to say the least."

"And what's a topping unit?"

"A mini-refinery to produce turbine fuel. As you saw from the air, this
station is made up of a couple of dozen buildings and crude tanks. Let me
show you a schematic on the computer."

Guifford types at the keyboard and brings up a diagram of the station on his
monitor.

"We're right here," he taps on the screen, indicating the living quarters.
"And over here are the main and booster pump buildings. The crude topping
unit and heater are here. The generator building is here. And these are the
crude relief tanks. The other structures are maintenance buildings,
equipment storage, stuff like that. The snow plows and fire truck are housed
here."

"Fire truck?"

"Yeah, each station has a trained fire response team. As you might imagine,
a fire would be as disastrous as a spill."

"Shouldn't we check all these buildings? See if we can find the missing
crew?"

"Absolutely. Any time you're ready, Agent Mulder."

I'm about to zip my jacket when something on the desk catches my eye. 

Oooo! Pay dirt. A sketch of a snow worm. The artist was no Di Vinci, but he
managed to get his idea across just the same. Leonardo Wanna-be's worm is
huge, if that little four-legged thing next to it is a dog. Holy shit, this
mystery monster looks like something out of Dune...only hairier.

"Is that supposed to be it?" Scully is at my elbow, peering past me at the
sketch.

"I think so."

"S'big."

"Hmm."

"Is that a dog?" she points a finger at the little four-legged scribble. "If
it is, your snow worm must be about fifty feet long." 

"That's impossible," Connelly challenges. He and Philp have joined us in the
office. "The largest annelids aren't more than three meters in length. And
those live only at the bottom of the ocean."

"This alleged snow worm is nothing more than a wild fairytale," Philp adds.
"A figment of someone's overactive imagination." For some reason, he squints
accusingly at me.

"Fairytale or not, something's happened to eight men," Guifford points out.
"How about we try to find out exactly what that is? We need to search this
entire facility and the surrounding grounds...right now. I suggest we go in
teams. Who's with me?" 

"I am," Connelly volunteers. He snags a camera out of his pack and drapes it
around his neck.

"You may want to bring a gun instead of that Nikon, son," Guifford nods at
the camera.

"We're not gonna shoot it...are we?" Connelly sounds incredulous.

"It ate three dogs and at least four crewmen. It doesn't appear to be very
friendly."

"It may be hungry, but that doesn't mean we should kill it. Aren't we here
to study it?" Connelly looks to me for support. I disappoint him with a
shrug. "Well...shouldn't we at least try to capture it? Why exterminate
something that doesn't exist anywhere else on earth?"

"We don't know that it exists here," Philp asserts.

"My primary concern is for the safety of all of you," Guifford unlocks a
well-stocked gun cabinet and removes a 30.06 Winchester rifle. Loading
shells into the weapon, he scoops a handful of additional ammo into his coat
pocket. "From what little we know, this creature is a threat."

"I'm not going out there," Philp announces and settles into a chair. "Not
until daylight."

"You wait for daylight and you'll be waiting a long time," Guifford laughs.
"The sun's not up more'n a couple of hours a day at this time of year. But
suit yourself. Agents Scully and Mulder, why don't you check the pump
buildings? Connelly and I will cover the topping units and the maintenance
structures. Either of you need a rifle?"

"No. We're all set," Scully tells him and is the first to the door. 
__________ 

Pump Station 6
5:40 PM

Stepping into the frigid outdoors is a bit of a shock. Not so much from the
cold, but from the incredible light show that paints the night sky. The
Aurora Borealis shimmers and glows above our heads; its astonishing flames
undulate across the heavens in unexpected shades of brilliant red. 

The color reminds me of Scully's hair.

"I thought the Aurora was blue or green," Scully is staring skyward. A
delightful look of wonder leaves her mouth hanging open as she tips her face
up to the extraordinary display. Flickering across her pale skin, the
Northern Lights' fiery hues bring a false blush to Scully's cheeks.
Appearing breathless and flushed, the sight of her ignites an uninvited,
aching conflagration in my groin. Completely inappropriate, but unstoppable,
none-the-less. So sue me -- it happens occasionally. Okay. More than
occasionally. So what? I swear if we were alone here...shit, who am I
kidding? I'd probably just make some half-assed innuendo, followed by a leer
and she'd feel inclined to do nothing more than ignore me. 

Even so, I can't help picturing...

"It is uncommon," Guifford's baritone cuts short my unlikely pornographic
fantasy. "Red auroras occur cyclically with an influx of electrons from
larger than normal solar flares every eleven years or so. At a higher than
normal altitude, the electrons lose their energy to oxygen atoms. The
process produces light as pure as a laser and we see a red aurora."

The scientific explanation takes nothing away from the beauty of the
spectacle. Either in the night sky or on my partner's lovely face.

Have I mentioned I'm in love with my partner? I am. She pretends she doesn't
know it. Or maybe she has no interest in me that way. I'm not sure. Lately,
I've been trying to find out -- a touch here, a touch there, a hospital bed
confession, a New Year's kiss. I've gone way beyond jokes about china
patterns and iced tea. Still, I'm clueless. My investigative skills
inexplicably evaporate whenever I try to ferret out the truth of Scully's
heart. And I guess I'm just too gutless to come right out and ask her how
she feels about me.

"The pump buildings are in that direction, Agents," Guifford cuts short my
unproductive speculation and points to a long, two-story structure dwarfing
a smaller one on the west side of the facility. "The bigger building is the
main pump. The smaller unit houses the booster pump. Meet you back at
quarters." Guifford directs Connelly around a satellite tower and the two
men disappear from our view. 

"You got my back, Mulder?"

"Yes indeedy. Always."

Scully leads us to the main pump building. Our flashlights pan the
surrounding yard as we walk. The ground is flat and snow covered. No tracks
mark the smooth surface. The fresh snow appears pink where it reflects the
light of the aurora. When we reach the building's main entrance, we find the
door has been left wide open. A snowdrift holds it in place. Scully aims her
light into the building. Her beam does little to illuminate the large room.
Once she's satisfied we're in no imminent danger, she reaches a hand
cautiously around the doorframe. Her fingers flutter along the wall hunting
for the light switch. When she finds it, the enormous room is suddenly
revealed to us. And not ten feet away are two small piles of bones. Human
bones.

Scully crouches beside the nearest pile. While she inspects the bones, I
keep my eyes on everything else. 

"This is weird, Mulder."

I risk a quick glance at the skeleton.

"Weird how?"

"These bones look almost as if they've been...scoured. With a wire brush or
steel wool. There are tiny abrasions scraped into all the surfaces. Almost
no flesh remains. No cartilaginous tissue, no tendons. You know what else?"

"I couldn't begin to guess."

"All the bones are here. I mean, this is a complete skeleton."

"Can it be identified? Is it one of the crew?"

"He was obviously male. Probably thirty to forty years of age. A good set of
dental records should tell us the rest."

"How do you think it...uh, <he> got this way?"

"I was hoping you had a theory, Mulder. Considering our remote location and
the short amount of time for this to have occurred, well...I really don't
know."

Scully crosses to the other skeleton.

"These bones have the same strange scratch markings."

"Scully, if these men were swallowed by some kind of giant worm, could the
flesh have been digested and the bones regurgitated?"

"What, like a snake? That would take weeks, Mulder. These men disappeared
only a few days ago!" She picks up a long arm or leg or whatever bone and
examines it closely under the direct beam of her flashlight. "That wouldn't
explain these bizarre scratches either."

"What if the digestive system were in some way different tha..." before I
can finish my thought, a rifle fires from somewhere on the east side of the
facility. Another shot quickly follows the first.

Scully is immediately up and outside. I'm only one step behind her. We jog
toward the east side of the station, past the living quarters and under the
satellite tower. Another shot blasts, its disorienting echo volleying from
one exterior wall to the next. We slow when we reach what appears to be a
maintenance garage. A large overhead door is wide open and light pours from
the garage across the snowy ground. Guifford's and Connelly's tracks lead to
the threshold. We ready our weapons. Scully gives me a quick glance over her
shoulder before we step inside. 

"Why did you kill it?" Connelly is yelling from somewhere behind a massive
snowplow. Scully and I weave our way around the grader's giant blade to
where Connelly is poised for a face off, toe-to-toe with the much bigger
ASPC Security Chief. Guifford's hackles aren't up, however. He's murmuring a
calm explanation to the sputtering young scientist. A fireman's ax dangles
loosely from the big man's right hand.

"It wasn't attacking us!" Connelly's face is red with anger. 

"What happened?" Scully asks. Guifford gestures with his ax at a large white
worm, curled in two separated halves on the garage floor. Liquid oozes from
the split creature, freezing into a puddle of milk-colored ice. One half of
the worm bulges ominously with the contents of something approximately the
size of a human being. 

"He killed it! For no reason!" Connelly sounds like a petulant child,
railing at the unfairness of life. Scully ignores the young man's resentment
and squats beside the severed ends of the worm. Removing her cold-weather
gloves, she withdraws a pair of latex gloves from her parka and snaps them
on. She plunges her fist into one sticky end of the amputated vermiform.

"Damn!" she cries, sounding startled. Very carefully, she withdraws her hand
from the creature's innards. When I see her fingers, I think I'm gonna puke.
She's bleeding; her latex glove is shredded. In her bloodied fist, she holds
a bone dripping with strings of flesh. Setting the bone on the floor, she
gingerly flexes her slashed hand.  

"Scully! You're hurt!"

"I'm fine. Damn it, it stings. Must be some kind of digestive juices."

"Wipe it off, Scully," I'm propelling her outside to the nearest snow bank
where she delicately peels off the grisly glove and bathes her sliced hand
in clean snow. Connelly and Guifford crowd around us, their argument ended
by their concern for Scully's welfare. 

"That bone was human, Mulder. We need to dissect the...the worm, remove the
rest of the skeleton." She risks a peek at her hand. It's striated with deep
cuts. Blood seeps from her raw skin. 

"You go back to quarters, clean up your hand," I urge her as gently as
possible. "We'll bring the worm." I keep my voice low, no more than a
whisper, because I know that's the only way she listens to me. Her face has
paled; her pain is obvious. But she doesn't utter even the tiniest whimper.
I'd be whining like a baby. I feel like crying just looking at her. Fuck the
worm. I want to pick up Scully and carry her back to quarters myself. 

She can tell I'm on the verge of scooping her off her feet and manhandling
her to the nearest first aid kit. She warns me away with a cautionary frown.

"Alright, I'll clean up," she begrudgingly agrees. "Be sure to bring the
worm. Connelly, you can help with the dissection. We can..."

"Scully, go!" I insist. 

Leveling another admonitory scowl at me, she finally shuts up and heads
toward quarters. Blood drips from her fingers, leaving a narrow trail of
bright red dots in the white snow, the sight of which churns my stomach more
than six chilidogs and a ride on the Cyclone at Coney Island. Bile forces
its way up the back of my throat. I'm generally not the queasy type, but the
sight of Scully's blood makes my knees weak. After all, I've made it my
self-appointed duty to guarantee nothing endangers Scully and I take the
responsibility damn seriously. Regrettably, as with most of the things I try
to do, I often fail. I don't keep her safe. I fall pitifully short in my
role as Scully's protector. Her brother is right. I'm one sorry
son-of-a-bitch and her association with me is a constant threat to her
well-being. She's been hurt plenty as my partner. And selfishly, despite
knowing with absolute certainty that her best interest would be served by
our complete, total and permanent separation, the thing I fear most is being
without her. She's the one woman I've ever loved who hasn't left me or died.
Yet. Naively, I hope that if I never, ever tell her how very deeply I love
her, I can protect her from the inevitable Curse of Fox William Mulder,
self-serving son-of-a-bitch. 

"We can load the worm onto a dogsled," Guifford suggests, slapping me on the
shoulder with a giant paw, knocking my indulgent guilt-fest into the back of
my brain. "There's one in the garage." 

__________ 

Living Quarters
6:47 PM

I hover over Scully as she finishes wrapping her wounded hand. It's clear
I'm driving her nuts. But I can't help myself. I need to know she's okay.
Really okay. "I'm fine," she tells me for the umpteenth time, but I don't
trust her automatic response to my queries about her physical condition.
Jesus, she claimed she was 'fine' when she was dying of cancer, so excuse me
for being a little over-protective.

"Scully, let me help..."

"It's finished, Mulder. See?" She extends her bandaged fist for me to
inspect. She's managed to neatly bind her injury, despite being
right-handed. 

"Does it hurt much?"

"No. Yes. A little. But honestly, I'm more embarrassed than anything else."

"Embarrassed? What for?"

"Mulder, I should have known better than to stick my hand inside that thing.
I can just hear my mother saying, 'Don't touch that, Dana. You don't know
where it's been.'"

"What do you think was inside it that cut you?"

"That's what I plan to find out. Where is the snow worm now?"

"Connelly's got it laid out in the cafeteria. He's waiting for you."

"Well, let's go," she turns on her heel and heads for the diningroom.

We find Connelly pacing the room, a barely contained bundle of energy
impatient to learn more about the strange creature he has stretched out on
one of the dining tables. The worm's two distinct halves lay side-by-side,
each section slightly longer than the ten-foot table. The diameter measures
bigger around than a man's waist...if you don't count the bulge of partially
digested human remains lodged conspicuously in one end.

"This thing is amazing!" Connelly's eyes are lit up like a sixteen-year-old
with a new driver's license and the keys to his dad's car. "It's huge! The
biggest annelid ever seen! Nothing else even comes close." 

"Other than size, how does it differ from other annelids?" Scully jumps
right in, eager to define this creature in concrete scientific terms. "Do
other fur-covered worms exist?"

"Actually, if you look closely, you'll see this isn't fur at all. It's
chaete. The phylum Annelida consists of segmented worms such as earthworms,
leeches and polychaetes. Polychaetes literally means 'many bristles.' There
are more than 9000 known species of annelids found in a variety of habitats
including terrestrial, marine and freshwater. Snow, too, I guess. It's the
segmentation along their trunks that distinguishes them. They have a serial
repetition of segments and organ systems divided by septa throughout the
body. You can see the very distinct segments right here," Connelly traces a
gloved finger around one of several indentations circling the worm's body.

"Cut it open," Scully instructs the young scientist. 

"Okay," Connelly readily agrees and chooses a sharp kitchen knife. He draws
the knife evenly through the worm. Milky-white fluid drains from the
incision. "Annelids are coelomate animals -- they have a fluid-filled body
cavity in which the gut and other organs are suspended."

"Which end is the front?" I can't see any difference at all.

"This," Connelly points with his knife. "See the mouth, here? The anus is at
that end." He gestures at an identical orifice on the opposite end of the
table. "These animals use their fluid filled bodies as a hydrostatic
skeleton. Annelids are basically a muscular bag of incompressible fluid that
allows them to control body movement by controlling where the liquid in
their coelom flows."

"What keeps the fluid from freezing in low arctic temperatures?"

"I have no idea," Connelly admits. "But many animals have evolved in ways
that allow them to withstand extreme cold. For example, the body temperature
of an arctic ground squirrel drops to 27 degrees Fahrenheit during
hibernation...without freezing. And wood frogs found in the Brooks Range
have the ability to freeze almost solid -- solid enough to snap in two --
and still survive. As temperatures drop, sugars are released by the frog's
liver. The sugars enter the frog's cells, keeping the cells from shrinking
and drying out. When water outside the cells freezes solid, the sugar water
inside the cells forms a slush, leaving the cells undamaged. In spring, the
wood frogs slowly thaw and hop away unharmed. This particular annelid may
have some unique anti-freezing chemical in the fluid of its body. We'll have
to run some tests to identify the specific make-up of...wow, this is weird!"

Personally, I think everything he's said so far is weird. I can't imagine
what he's found now that's struck him as unusual.

"What is it?"

"Look at this structure inside the gut! I've never seen anything like this."
Connelly exposes a rough-textured material inside the worm. It looks like a
giant bottlebrush made of steel wool. The wiry structure coils like a
corkscrew down through the animal's body. "It's sharp. Very sharp. Like
razor wire. I think we found what sliced your hand, Agent Scully."

"It looks like it could strip even the toughest tissue from bone," Scully
adds. 

"Check this out. There are bits of what appear to be sand and rock in here,
too. The stones are embedded throughout the digestive structure." 

"That wiry stuff looks almost metallic," I point out.

"Well I can't say for certain, but I doubt the tissue is any kind of metal.
As I'm sure you're aware, all life on earth is carbon-based. There are no
exceptions."

Hmm. An extraterrestrial connection? I waggle my eyebrows at Scully. She
gives me her familiar 'don't go there' glare.

Cutting deeper with his knife, Connelly incrementally exposes what's left of
the human carcass inside the worm's swollen digestive tract. "This worm's
abrasive inner tissue, combined with the sand and stone, probably scrapes
meat from bones very quickly. The bones are then expelled and the meat
remains in the gut where it's digested."

"That would explain the condition of the bones Mulder and I found in the
pump building. All the surfaces appeared to have been scoured." 

"Where do you think the worm came from in the first place?" I ask. "Is it
possible it originated off-planet?" Connelly stares at me like I just grew a
second head. Scully's expression of resigned impatience tells me she fully
expected this question. "I mean, why hasn't this creature been seen before?"

"Many new species are discovered everyday, Agent Mulder. I don't think we
need to jump to any rash conclusions."

"No rash conclusions, Mulder," Scully repeats.

"I'll admit this is a unique organism," Connelly concedes. "However there
are any number of reasons an animal like this could have remained
undiscovered until now."

"Such as...?"

"Possibly it tolerates or requires very long periods of hibernation. Some
viruses remain dormant for hundreds, even thousands of years."

"What would wake it up now?"

"Well, a cyclical change usually triggers an animal to emerge from
hibernation. The most common event is predictable seasonal variation. I
really wouldn't want to guess, Agent Mulder. Not without more study."

"Guifford mentioned that the appearance of the red aurora is cyclical. Could
the arrival of this worm have anything to do with the recurrent changes of
the Northern Lights?"  

"That's quite a leap. The fact that this species has remained undiscovered
only until recently may be attributable to no more than simple fact that
very few of these worms exist," Connelly explains. "Actually, I've been
wondering how many more we might find."

"At least one," I suggest.

"Not necessarily. Annelids are hermaphroditic. They possess both male and
female gonads. And some don't procreate sexually at all, but reproduce by
budding."

And I thought my love life was boring.

"Can you tell which type this is?"

"The glands are quite obvious there below the head. But their presence
doesn't mean this annelid can't bud as well."

Obvious? I see nothing resembling sex organs anywhere along the worm. Hell,
I can't even remember which end was the head. Preferring not to show my
ignorance of annelid anatomy, I simply nod. 

"Agent Mulder? You wanna lend me a hand?" Guifford pokes his head into the
cafeteria and saves me from failing Annelid Biology 101. "I want to collect
the two bodies you and Agent Scully discovered in the pump building. Bag 'em
for transport back to Fairbanks. We still have a missing man to locate as
well."

I grab my parka. 

__________ 

Main Pump Building
7:52 PM

"Agent Scully gonna be okay?" A crease of worry pinches Guifford's eyebrows.
In minutes, we're in the main pump building, filling the first of two body
bags.

"So she claims. But sometimes she lies so I won't worry."

"Jesus," Guifford gestures at the meager pile of bones we shift and tuck
into the bag. "A few days ago, this was a man I knew. A friend. All these
men were friends of mine. The first four. These two. The one still inside
the belly of that damn creature."

"I'm sorry. One man may still be alive," I offer him hope.

"You don't really think that any more than I do. Christ, if the worm didn't
get him, the cold certainly has." He zips the bag closed. We move to the
next body. "I'm glad I killed it. I'm glad it's dead." He's talking about
the worm of course.

"There may be more."

"Shit."

"It's likely there's more."

"Where the hell did these damn monsters come from, Agent Mulder? And how the
Christ are we gonna get rid of them? I can't just close this pump station
down, abandon it. I'm expected to permanently secure this station. Make it
safe for our workers to return."

I don't have an answer for him. Scully's injury and the deaths of seven men
have dulled my initial excitement for this case. Unlike the Loch Ness
Monster, this creature swallows men whole and then spits out the bones. Or
maybe the bones come out the tail end. I'm not sure and I guess it really
doesn't matter. The result is the same either way.

"Let's see if we can find your other man," I suggest. We stack the two bags
and easily carry them to the airplane. Guifford stows the bodies in the
plane's cargo hold. The crewmen's skeletal remains take up less space than
one medium-sized Samsonite suitcase. 

"Scully and I didn't check the booster pump building. Maybe we should start
there," I suggest.

"Alright. And if we need to, we'll circle around to the generator building
afterward. The crude units, too. Connelly and I never made it any farther
than the maintenance garage." 

We talk and walk at the same time. It's too cold to stand out in the wind.

"You fired three shots..." I press Guifford for more information as we hurry
to the pump building.

"Yeah. And not one of 'em did a damn thing to stop the creature. It was like
throwing darts at a whale. Had no effect what so ever. So I cut it in half."

"Did it attack you?"

"No." Guifford looks a bit chagrined. "That's why Connelly was so angry. He
was right, Agent Mulder. We weren't in any immediate danger. But when I saw
that damn big lump in its belly..." his voice fades out and we both picture
the giant worm flaying the Alyeska crewman. Alive. Jesus. 

"Maybe we should go back and get your ax."

Smiling grimly at my suggestion, Guifford opens the door to the secondary
pump building and flicks on the lights. It doesn't take us long to complete
a walk-through of the small space. We come up empty handed. No missing
crewman. No worms.

"Generator building's next door," Guifford points the way. We exit through a
side door and wade through drifting snow to a neighboring building. The
blowing flakes cut our visibility to about ten yards. It's a relief to get
back inside where four thrumming turbines keep the temperature toasty warm.
We split up. Guifford patrols the left side of the building, I take the
right. We weave our way around the first massive turbine, which looks like a
ten-foot radius half-barrel laid on its side. Finding nothing, we continue
around the next curving metal mound. Still nothing. On the far side of the
third unit, we freeze in our tracks. Between us, hugging the back side of
the third turbine is a literal nest of twenty-foot-long worms. Shit. There
must be fifty or more, lumped into an enormous knotted pile. They shift and
heave in an effort to situate themselves closer to the turbine. Several
comparatively tiny piles of bones dot the floor beyond the worms. At this
distance, it's impossible to tell if the bones are animal or human. 

I glance across the room at Guifford and see he's staring straight back at
me. Does my expression look as panicked as his? I'm not sure if the pounding
I hear is from the station's turbines or my own heart. Whatever. When one of
the worms stretches its head in my direction, I don't wait around to figure
it out. As silently as I possibly can, I back up. I move slow and deliberate
at first...until a sound like fifty skiers racing down a mountain slope
launches me toward the door in an all-out run. Guifford is ahead of me, his
longer legs easily outdistancing mine. Outside the door, he's kind enough to
wait for me. I'm not sure I would have offered him the same courtesy. When I
finally scramble across the threshold, he slams the door shut behind us,
closing in the slalom of worms. It dawns on both of us simultaneously that
the door is of little or no protection. After all, the worms managed to
somehow get into the building in the first place with the door closed. 

"Let's go!" he huffs and I'm not about to argue. 

With a sense of relief I never thought possible, we reach the living
quarters and Guifford yanks me into the building where Philp, Scully and
Connelly stare at us like we've brought the entire family of worms along
with us.  

__________ 

Living Quarters
8:33 PM

"What the hell happened to you two?"

I'm not sure who asks the question. It could have come from any one of them.

"Worms," Guifford gasps.

"Lotsa worms," I squeak before gulping in a lung full of air.

"Where?" Again I'm not sure who's asking.

"Generator..."

"Building." Guifford and I are like two runners in a relay race, passing off
the baton and letting the other finish what the first began.

"Holy shit." That definitely came from Connelly. Philp is looking like he
doesn't believe a word we're saying. Scully's mouth is closed, although her
eyebrows have climbed into her hairline. Guifford and I sag against the door
hoping our combined weight is enough to hold back the horde of man-eating
worms.

"How many worms were there?" Connelly is ready to start scientifically
analyzing the situation. Thank god. Despite being the youngest person here,
he's the expert and we're counting on him to make sense of things. Tell us
what to do. 

"Enough bait to catch a shit-load of Beluga." Did I say that? I must be more
nervous than I thought.

"Fifty. Maybe more," Guifford elucidates my overstatement. 

"Where were they exactly? What were they doing?"

"They were piled next to one of the turbines," Guifford explains.

"Trying to stay warm maybe?" I guess.

"I doubt it. The worms are naturally suited to an arctic environment. They
shouldn't need an external source of heat...unless..."

"Unless...?"

"Unless they're young. Undeveloped."

"B-babies?" I stammer.

"But they were twenty feet long. At least. Just like the one we brought in
here," Guifford insists.

"We don't know for a fact the one we dissected was a mature adult."

The sketch! If that drawing I found earlier is any indication, I'm guessing
there's a mother of a Mama Snow Worm somewhere outside. I feel like we've
stepped into a bad movie. A cheesy grade B horror flick where the local
fauna is transformed into a hero-gobbling giant by some kind of bizarre
nuclear test gone awry. I expect to see James Arness walk through the door
any minute.

"Maybe it wasn't the heat," I say, hoping for another explanation. "Maybe
they're attracted to something else. The electricity. Or the magnetic
field."

"It's possible," Connelly agrees. Evidently he doesn't care for the grim
implication of a worm nursery any more than I do. We'd all prefer to think
the twenty-footers are as big as these things get.

"Or the sound? Maybe?" I'm grasping at straws.   

"Did you find the missing crewman?" Scully changes the subject, bringing us
back to our true purpose for being here. 

"No. We saw lots of bones..." 

"Are we in danger?" Philp interrupts. "Are we safe in here?"

Five pairs of eyes shift, half expecting to see a battalion of worms wearing
bibs and holding forks undulate down the hall behind us. 

"Let's batten down. Check all possible points of entry," Guifford takes
command.

"Why not fly out of here right now?" Philp blusters.

"We're here for a reason," I remind him.

"Which is?"

An acceptable answer escapes me. Why are we here? I know I was hoping to see
something strange and new...

"To find four missing crewmen and bring them back...alive or dead," Scully
asserts. "The families of those men deserve an explanation." Right. What
Scully said. That's why we're here.

"Well, you've found them...most of them any way. It'll be a miracle if the
last crewman is alive. I say we leave. Now," Philp glares at us.

"I came to study these animals," Connelly argues. "And I plan to do exactly
that."

"So <you> stay. The rest of us don't have to risk our necks while you work
on your dissertation."

"No one is being left behind," Guifford bellows. "We all go or we all stay.
Shall we take a vote? Who wants to leave right now?"

Philp's hand goes up. I look at Scully. She folds her arms across her chest.
If she's staying, I'm staying. Connelly's obviously not leaving. 

"Until that last crewman is found, my job isn't finished," Guifford looks
straight at Philp. "And neither is yours. So I guess we're all here for a
bit longer. Now let's check this building. Lock or block any doors, windows,
vents and other possible points of entry." 

__________ 

Living Quarters
3:33 AM

"Mulder? Mulder, are you asleep?" Scully calls softly from beyond my bedroom
door.

"It's open, Scully." 

She pushes the door inward and peeks at me. She looks surprised to find me
completely dressed and on top of the covers. 

"What are you doing, Mulder? We're supposed to be getting a couple of hours
sleep."

"I could ask you the same question."

"I brought you some food."

"Scully! You cooked for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. These are Oreos." She extends a plate and I take a
couple of cookies. "And milk." She sets a glass on the nightstand next to
me.

"Cookies and milk. You wouldn't happen to have a Teddy bear somewhere for
me, too, would you?"

"No. Mind if I join you for a few minutes?"

"Not at all." I shift to make some room for her on the bed next to me. There
are no chairs. "Scully, if you thought I was asleep, why'd you bring me
cookies? I'll take another, by the way."

Placing the plate on my thigh, she passes me the glass of milk. I down half
the glass in three gulps before offering it back to her. "Finish it," I
urge. She takes a dainty sip, then returns the milk to the nightstand. 

"I saw your light under the door on my way to the kitchen," she confesses.

"You can't sleep?"

She holds up her bandaged hand to explain her insomnia. "I was looking for
ibuprofen," she admits.

She sinks into the pillows stacked high against my headboard. I raided three
other bedrooms so I could prop myself comfortably upright while reading a
dog-eared copy of 'Tremors' scrounged from the station's meager library. 

"You okay, Scully?" 

"The aurora makes the station look like it's on fire," she ignores my
question and gazes out the tiny bedroom window. She's right. The red glow
and the hazy blowing snow give the impression of flame and smoke. "Doesn't
it." She's not asking a question.

I don't stare with her out the window at the vermilion sky. Instead, I stare
at her vermilion hair. A thousand shades of fiery red shimmer and sway and
drift in the static-filled winter air. Before I realize what I'm doing, I
stroke a curved lock at her ear lobe. She snaps her head around and looks
into my eyes with more intensity than when she watched the aurora. 

"A few minutes. I just want to stay a few minutes," she whispers and I nod
my head. All I want is for her to stay. 

"Stay as long as you like."

She covers my hand with her uninjured one. Her touch is extraordinarily
gentle. 

<Stay.>

<Stay, Scully.>

<Don't leave me.>

<Don't ever leave me.>

"I'm glad we're here," she says, surprising me.

"Really?"

"Mmhm. This case is important."

"Chasing a snow worm? Jesus, Scully. I expected more ribbing from you than I
got for Big Blue or the Jersey Devil."

"Don't forget the Flukeman. Or that sea creature in Florida," she smiles her
tiny little Mona Lisa smile. 

"Or the Wanshang Dhole?"

Now she laughs. "Or the Wanshang Dhole."

"How 'bout the Golem?"

"Mmhm. And the Tulpa. Oh, oh, and remember the terrible insects in the
Olympic National Forest?" She leans into my shoulder, squeezes my fingers.
Her smile is beautiful.

"El Chupacabrraaaa," I add to our list, rolling the R.

"And mothmen."

"Of course. We wouldn't want to leave out the mothmen." Christ, I want to
kiss her. And not just because listening to Scully talk about mythical
beasts is a bigger turn-on than phone sex. "What makes the snow worms more
important than Big Blue or mothmen?" I ask, trying to distract myself from
her luscious lips.

"Not the worms, Mulder. The people. The people who won't be killed by the
worms. They're what's important."

She's looking into my eyes again. I try not to blink. I don't want to shut
her out, not even for a second. I say nothing and wait for her to continue.

"This case...we're going to save lives."

"We save lots of lives, Scully. All the time," I assure her. 

"Sometimes we save fewer than we lose." 

"I think our record's on the plus side."

"Maybe. This case, however, is going to help our average."

"You sound certain. Don't tell me you have a hunch or something."

"Hardly. And if I did, I'd never admit it to you, Mulder." 

"Seven men have already died," I remind her.

"That was before we got here. It doesn't count."

"It doesn't?"

"Of course not. We can't control what happens <before> we're put on a case."
She squints at me. "You're not feeling somehow to blame for the deaths of
those crewmen, are you?"

"No. But if we'd gotten here earlier..."

"Jesus, Mulder. I've never met anybody who carries the weight of the world
on their shoulders quite like you do. You're not to blame for all of life's
tragedies, you know." 

Well, that's not the message I got as a kid. The fault always seemed to be
mine and I'm still apologizing for it. If only to ghosts. The words "I'm
sorry" slip out of my mouth more often than Elvis sightings in Vegas.
Knowing you're not to blame and feeling your not to blame are two totally
different things. A doctorate in psychology does nothing to ameliorate my
misconstrued culpability. I nailed myself into a coffin of guilt the day Sam
was taken. And now I keep looking to Scully to show up with a crowbar so she
can pry me out of my tomb of self-reproach. I obviously don't have the
fortitude to free myself. 

As usual, I ask far too much of Scully. 

I may not be to blame for all of life's tragedies, but I am most certainly
responsible for hers. Her unselfish sacrifices are my greatest regrets. Her
losses stoke the fires of my own well-deserved guilt. I know I bring nothing
to her...nothing but seven years of suffering that would have crushed the
spirit of anyone with less courage. Anyone but Scully. I'm afraid I'll wind
up killing her in the end. Death by association. Historically, that's the
pattern anyway.

Sweet Christ! Scully is kissing me...on the lips. Just a tiny, little, light
kiss but definitely a kiss. And the gentle touch of her lips on mine
immobilizes me, of course. I'm dumbstruck. I can't believe she would want
this.

"Good night, Mulder." She slides from the bed, her lips leaving me before I
have a chance to respond to them or to her.

"You could stay," I tell her, sounding desperate.

"Good night, Mulder."

Watching her close the door behind her, I eat the last Oreo cookie and wish
with all my heart and sorry-ass soul that I had the balls to ask that woman
to marry me.  

__________ 

Living Quarters
5:10 AM

After a couple of short, sleepless hours, Scully, Connelly, Guifford and I
meet at the breakfast table to plan our strategy. Philp doesn't join us.
Apparently, he's leaving the day's dirty work to us. At the top of our To Do
list, of course, is finding the final crewman. Beyond that, Connelly wants
to gather as much information about the worms as possible. Guifford is more
interested in securing the station for APSC. Scully has no agenda beyond the
recovery of the crewman as far as I can tell. Naturally, I like to think she
wants to make sure I stay alive and healthy. 

Coffee cups steaming, we lean over our now empty breakfast plates and
discuss our next steps.

"I want to get a look at the nest," Connelly informs us.

"It's too dangerous," Guifford warns. "We have no way to defend ourselves."

"I need to observe them if I'm going to learn anything about their
behavior."

"I understand that, son, but those worms attacked Agent Mulder and me
without provocation. I wouldn't recommend going back to the nest until we
have some means to protect ourselves. Our guns have proved useless against
those creatures."

"I don't want to hurt them."

"Unfortunately, they don't feel the same way about us."

"They're not evil. They're just hungry animals."

"And they see us as lunch. Look, son," Guifford places a big hand on
Connelly's shoulder, "Alyeska expects me to clear those creatures outta this
station. Permanently. The pipeline isn't a nature preserve for endangered
species. You've got to let go of the idea of saving them."

"It's not right. We know nothing about them."

"And that's exactly why you're here. Learn what you can, while you can,
because it's my job to kill these things. Every last one of them."

"Do you feel the same way, Agent Mulder? Agent Scully?" Connelly's eyes dart
desperately from me to Scully.

"I don't think we have much of a choice, Will," Scully says gently. "Lives
are at stake. Unless you can suggest some way for us to either relocate the
worms or interact safely with them, we may have to kill them."

"I haven't had enough time to study their habits. I...I..." Connelly throws
up his hands.

"We're out of time," Guifford pushes his chair back from the table. "If my
last man is still alive, he won't be for long. We've got to find him now. I
plan to kill those monsters."

"How?" 

"I'm thinking about triggering the generator building's Halon fire
suppression system."

"No! Wait! Why not finish searching the other buildings first? If you don't
find the crewman, then flood the nest with Halon. As a last resort. Maybe
that'll give me time enough to learn something helpful."

Scully softly clears her throat, interrupting Guifford and Connelly's
stalemate.

"Bob, why don't you and I search the facility for the crewman while Mulder
and Will return to the nest to see what they can learn?" Scully suggests. 

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Guifford eyes Scully's bandaged hand.

"I'm fine."

"Scully..."

"I'm fine, Mulder." 

I guess I shouldn't tell her I was about to protest the repeat visit to the
worms' nest and not her injury. With my concerned-partner persona at risk --
not to mention my well-rehearsed macho image -- I decide it's best to let
her think what she will. 

"Let's go then." 

Did I say that?   

__________ 

Generator Building
5:40 AM

Squinting into the blowing snow, Connelly and I wade through fresh drifts to
the generator building. Everything around us glows fiery red from the
persistent aurora. If it weren't for the frigid temperature, I'd swear we'd
stepped directly into the flames of hell. A distinct possibility,
considering the demons we're about to face. At the building's entrance, I
stop Connelly from entering.

"Wait! Don't go in yet," I yell over the howling wind. 

"Why not?"

"Let me get the ax from the maintenance garage first."

Impatient, Connelly clearly has no desire to linger. He knows we don't have
much time before Guifford returns and insists on activating the Halon
system. 

"I'll only be a minute," I promise. "Don't go in without me." 

"Okay, but hurry up."

I do. Not only because I'm worried Connelly won't wait, but because it's so
damn cold. 

I enter the maintenance garage and briefly wonder if I've gone deaf. The
total silence is a shock after the noisy wind outside. Guifford's ax leans
against the fire truck. The surrounding floor is still slicked with milky
white ice from the worm he killed yesterday. I grab the ax and go.

I haven't taken more than a step or two out of the garage when I hear
Connelly scream. Not a call for help, but a high-pitched shriek of sheer
terror. Shit! I race to where I left him standing at the threshold of the
generator building. He's not there. Damn it. I'm about to go inside when I
hear him yell again. His sickening squeal of pain fades into an echo of
dying fear. I swivel and peer through the swirling snow, trying to locate
him somewhere in the crimson blizzard. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Not ten yards away, a swollen worm is plowing through
the snow toward me. I'm stunned by its speed. As it charges, it rears up out
of the powdery drift and opens its mouth. My muscles lock up tighter than
rush hour traffic on the George Washington Parkway and I almost drop the ax
when I catch a glimpse of Connelly's bloodstained jacket lodged inside the
worm's throat. I think I hear a gurgled cry as the monster's enormous maw
stretches wider and wider in anticipation of swallowing me whole.

Acting on pure instinct, I swing the ax and slice a good-sized chunk of
flesh from the worm's head, sending a spray of white liquid through the icy
air. The worm contracts backward, recoiling from the threat of my blade. I
take advantage of its retreat and hack at it again, this time lodging my ax
firmly into its muscular body. It thrashes and I nearly lose my grip on the
ax. I yank my meager weapon free and slash into the beast once more. Two or
three more strokes and I've managed to sever its head. To my astonishment,
this doesn't kill it. It continues to squirm, roiling backward trying to
escape from me. Liquid pours from its open wound. When the fountain of milky
white turns pink from Connelly's blood, I lose it. I attack the creature,
plunging my ax into it again and again. Adrenaline has taken control of me.
Or maybe the Energizer Bunny since I chop the worm in half and keep on
chopping. I strike into the still writhing half-worm with inexorable rage.
Each segment of the worm's liquid-filled body bursts like a water balloon
when I hack my way along its bulk. The spouting fluid soaks the outside of
my parka. The inside of my coat is saturated with my own sweat. My lungs
ache for more oxygen. I can't breathe deeply enough to satisfy the demands
of my overworked body. Finally, when the ax becomes too heavy to lift
anymore and my shaking legs give out, I drop to my knees beside the now
unmoving carcass. I huff for air while the dragging wind whips away my
feeble, frosty exhalations.

I take only a moment to catch my breath before I grab for the bulge that
contains Connelly. I use the ax to rip open the worm's bristly flesh,
tearing my way through the layers of grisly tissue to the body of the young
scientist underneath. I'm hoping against hope that it's not too late and
somehow Connelly is miraculously alive. Like Jonah in the whale, I guess.
Sawing through the wiry organ that coils through the animal's gut, I work to
free the young man's body. My stomach contracts when a gruesome collection
of human bones and muscles slips out of the worm like an aborted fetus,
joining the carnage already staining the snow.

"No. God damn it, no!" Connelly looks like he's been turned inside out.
Slaughtered in less than a minute or two. 

An unstoppable shudder vibrates my limbs as I try to stand. I'm exhausted.
And so damn cold. My wet clothes have started to freeze. I lurch in the
direction of Scully and Guifford, gripping my ax like a lifeline. 

__________ 

Topping Unit
6:25 AM

"Mulder!" Scully pales when she sees me. I must look like shit. I'm covered
in icy gore and shivering like a San Andreas Jell-O factory. She grips me,
holding me up. "Mulder, what happened? Where's Will?" 

I try to answer but can't. My chattering teeth don't allow it. 

"Let's get you to the living quarters," Grabbing my icy sleeve, Scully turns
me back the way I came. "You're freezing. You're going into shock." Guifford
grasps my other arm and I let them propel me along while I try to simply
stay on my feet.

"D-d-did you f-find the other cr-crewman?" I clench my jaws in an effort to
stop my clacking teeth.

"No."

Her revelation sends a fresh tremor through my already quaking muscles.

"Sh-shit."

"I'm gonna kill those fucking snow monsters," Guifford promises. "Starting
with the nest. And then I'm gonna find my other man."

"Bob, we may still be able to find him without killing the worms." Scully
tugs at me. "This way, Mulder."

"We can't thoroughly search this station without endangering our own lives.
My crewman could be holed up in any one of the buildings we haven't been
able to get to yet. We gotta clear out those worms so we can be free to comb
this facility. The best way to take out those worms is at the nest with the
Halon. It's dangerous, but we don't have a hell of a lot of options."
Guifford's voice seems to drift into my ears from some far-off place. I'm
surprised to look down and see his big hand gripping my arm.

At the living quarters, Guifford opens the door and I stumble inside.

"Come on, Mulder. You need to change out of these wet clothes." Scully
gently guides me down the hall toward the bathroom. "Tell us what happened
to Will," she insists. Guifford follows us. He wants to learn the details,
too. 

"I...I left him...only for a m-minute. T-t-to get the ax," I hold the ax up
for them to see. Guifford slides it from my aching fingers and leans it
against the bathroom wall. I can do little more than shiver while Scully
strips the frosty, blood-soaked gloves and coat from me.

"What then?" she tugs my sweater over my head. It's sopping, too.

"I heard him yell...uh...scream. I ran. T-too late." God, I can't stop
shaking. 

"Help me. Mulder, <help> me. You need to get out of these clothes and into a
warm shower."

I fumble with my belt, but can't seem to make my hands work. Guifford takes
pity and joins in, assisting Scully and me.

"Where's Connelly's body?" Guifford asks. He twirls the faucet on the
nearest shower and lets the water heat.

"Outside the g-generator b-building." All my clothes lay in a wet heap in
the corner, my thermal underwear topping the pile. Guifford tests the
water's temperature before pushing me under the spray. I turn my back on the
two of them and let the steamy heat warm my skin. 

"I'll get some towels," Scully offers, leaving Guifford to make sure I don't
collapse and drown.

"Was it quick?" 

"Huh?" Confused, I look over my shoulder at Guifford.

"Quick. His death. Did Connelly die quickly?"

I nod.

"You gonna be okay? Will you be able to help us with the Halon?"

I nod again. 

Even in the hot water, I feel chilled to the bone.

Scully appears with several towels. Guifford turns off the water and I let
them wrap me in terrycloth. Somehow, we get to my bedroom where Scully tugs
a clean, dry thermal shirt over my head. She gives my hair another once-over
with the towel and wipes a wayward drip from my chin. I'm not shivering
anymore. But it seems like the things around me are happening in fits and
starts, as if I'm on pause while the rest of the world keeps playing at
standard speed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left him alone. I'm sorry," I mutter.

"Stop saying that, Mulder. It's not your fault. Connelly knew what he was
getting into more than any of us. Here, put this on," she holds out a fresh
sweater. Numbly, I pull over me. Once my arms are through the sleeves,
Guifford passes me a cup of coffee. I have no idea when he left the room to
get it, but it smells good. I drink it and begin to feel normal again.

"Philp is gonna have to help us," Guifford says. Scully seems to know what
he's talking about but I'm lost. "We should go in teams of two, one team at
each end of the building. One person on each team will set off a sensor, the
other person will watch their back. We'll have to time everything just
right. The sensors need to be tripped simultaneously. Once the Halon system
is activated, we gotta get out of there. We'll only have ninety seconds, at
most." 

"Can't you activate the Halon system from the computer in the living
quarters?" Scully asks.

"Unfortunately, no. The system requires two heat sensors to go off
simultaneously in order to trip the Halon. It's a failsafe required by the
EAP to prevent the system from being triggered by a false alarm."

"You go with Mulder. I'll team with Philp."

"Are you sure?"

"I think I have a better chance with him than you do. You seem to irritate
each other."

 Guifford laughs. 

"Feeling better, Mulder?" Scully sits on the bed next to me and rubs her
palm across my back.

"Mmhm. Yeah."

"Okay. I'll get Philp." 

__________ 

Living Quarters
8:23 AM

From halfway down the hall, I can hear Philp arguing with Scully.

"You're crazier than that scientist if you think I'm going to waltz into a
fuckin' worm nursery."

"William Connelly. His name was Will Connelly. He was twenty-six years old
and he was trying to help save lives by finding out everything he could
about those animals."

"I guess he found out they were hungry."

"Stan, we need your help."

"You better figure out another way. I hate worms. Even small ones. I have no
intention of getting anywhere near a nest of twenty-foot long, squirming
monsters."

Even in my still slightly dazed state, I can't help but be curious about
Philp's unusual worm phobia. People are afraid of a lot of different things.
Snakes, of course. Spiders. I once heard of a guy who was scared of horses
-- said they were out to take over the world. Whatever. But the innocuous
earthworm? What traumatic childhood horror had caused Philp to loathe
harmless vermiforms?

"There is no other way," Scully says firmly. "A crewman is still missing. We
are going to find him. Believe me, if you expect to leave Station 6, return
home and never see another worm again, you are going to help us do this. Do
you understand?"

In case I never mentioned it, Scully has a commanding tone that disallows
argument or objection. Despite her small size, she can stop killers,
evacuate buildings, and even disarm sinister Syndicate boss men with her
authoritarian timbre. Her voice has the exact same pitch as your mother's
when you were seven years old and were told in no uncertain terms that you
would never, <ever> again kidnap your little sister's Teddy bear and hold it
hostage in your bedroom claiming it was now a prisoner of the Klingon
Empire...oops, guess that was my mother. Anyway, Philp is no match for
Scully. Never stood a chance. 

Scully tosses Philp a parka and he obediently slides it on. Guifford is
waiting by the door holding two small propane torches. 

"The fire suppression system in the generator building uses Halon gas as an
extinguishing agent," Guifford explains. "The entire space floods when two
or more heat sensors are activated simultaneously. After the system is
triggered, we'll have only ninety seconds to vacate and seal off the
building."

"Or what?" Philp asks nervously.

"Or we suffocate." 

"Where are the heat sensors?" Scully wants to know.

"The sensors are located in the ceiling, one above each turbine. There are
two exits to the building, one at each end. Obviously, I suggest we set off
the sensors nearest the exits. We can use these two propane torches to
trigger the alarms."

"How do we get on top of the turbines?"

"Each unit has a built in ladder leading to the top. The turbines themselves
are about ten feet tall. The ceiling is eighteen feet."

"What about the worms? What do we do if the worms attack?" Philp blocks the
door. It's clear he's terrified.

"We've got two axes. One for each team. You take this one," Guifford thrusts
the ad hoc weapon at Philp. "Unless you'd rather have Agent Scully watch
your back while you light the torch."

Philp glances at Scully's bandaged hand and decides he'd prefer to hang onto
the weapon.

"The other ax is in the maintenance garage. We'll pick it up on the way.
Agent Mulder, do you prefer to work worm patrol or fire duty?"

"I've already seen enough wormburger for one day, thanks. I'd just as soon
play with matches."

"Okay. Agent Mulder and I will set off the sensor over the number four
turbine, closest to nest. Agent Scully, you and Philp activate the sensor
over the number one turbine. Any objections?"

We shake our heads.

"Let's do it." Guifford opens the front door and leads us into the blowing
snow.

Our first stop is the maintenance garage where Guifford retrieves the second
ax from behind a long row of Arctic Cat snowmobiles. Two firemen's axes are
dismal preparation for the enemy we face, but we feel obliged to launch our
attack none-the-less. 

"It should take less than three minutes to get in the building, climb the
ladders and activate the sensors," Guifford tells us. "Don't forget to shut
the doors behind you on your way out. We need to contain the worms inside
the building with the Halon. Everyone ready?"

Nodding, Scully parts from the group and marches bravely into the swirling
snow to the generator building's front door. Shouldering his ax, Philp
trails behind her like a reluctant child. Guifford and I hurry to the
opposite end of the building where we find the door wide open.

"Now we know how the worms got in," Guifford whispers. 

As silently as possible, Guifford and I approach the fourth turbine. The
nest is less than ten yards away on the other side. Every little,
teensy-weensy noise we make seems loud enough to roust even the dead worm
still lying out front, not to mention the fifty or so Sleeping Beauties
cozying up to the third turbine. I tuck the propane torch under my arm and
scale the ten-foot turbine's ladder, my snow-covered boots occasionally
slipping on the metal rungs. I wonder how Scully's managing to lug a torch
and climb her ladder with only one good hand. When I step onto the curved
roof of the turbine, I get a bird's eye view of the worms hugging the number
three unit. I can also see Scully at the far end of the room, perched on the
rounded apex of the first turbine. She gives me a bandaged thumb's up. I
mirror her gesture and we light our torches, holding them as close as
possible to the sensors. Scully stands on tiptoe, her arms stretched high
over her head. Because my reach is longer, I'm a heck of a lot closer to my
sensor than she is to hers. Will it make a difference if our timing isn't
precisely in synch? Do these sensors have to be tripped absolutely
simultaneously? 

The worms in the nest shift, vying with each other for the space closest to
the humming turbine. Oooh, Christ. On the floor just below me, I see the
unmistakable skeleton of a human being. The bones can only belong to the
final missing crewman. We're risking our lives -- not to mention killing all
these animals -- for a dead man. The moral justification for our slaughter
just slithered out the window. I consider yelling to the others. Calling off
our unnecessary attack. But the worms in the nest seem already agitated.
They know we're here. A few heads rear up and I realize it's too late to
stop what we're doing. As the worms spread out, our attack now becomes a
defensive maneuver. I glance at Guifford. Oh, shit! 

Behind him, a worm is nudging through the door on its return to the nest and
Guifford is directly in its path. He's facing away from the surging
creature. He doesn't see it. 

"Behind you!" I blurt, warning Guifford. He spins. And at the same time, the
fire alarm blares. The Halon system is activated. Scully is scrambling down
her ladder. Philp is already out of the building. The worms at the nest
appear confused, maybe by the shrill alarm or perhaps by the flashing strobe
lights. 

Below me, Guifford lifts his ax like a baseball bat and waits for the worm's
attack. 

The creature's mouth yawns open as it nears the big man. Guifford swings the
ax. I clamber down the ladder and join the battle, thrusting my flaming
torch into the beast's bristled flank. Steam rises from its strange flesh
where I sear it. The worm instinctively curls around itself in an effort to
protect its injured skin. 

With the worm distracted, Guifford shoves me toward the door. He's right on
my heels. Prepared to slam the door closed behind us, it's my turn to play
the gentleman, so I wait for Guifford to clear the threshold. 

He never makes it.

The worm has uncoiled and latched onto the big man's leg. Guifford yelps. I
grab his outstretched hand and pull, bracing myself against the doorframe.
Guifford screams again. Blood grinds from the worm's mouth. I tug as hard as
I can but find myself losing ground. Behind Guifford, over the bowed back of
the thrashing worm, I can see the floor coming alive as the nest of worms
disperses and the animals heave toward the door...and us.

"Scully!" I yell for backup. "Scully, help me!"

"Let go," Guifford grunts. Blood slops to the floor from somewhere below his
left knee where his leg disappears into the gripping snow worm. "Let go and
shut...the...door."

"No!" I won't. I won't leave him, close him in with those creatures.
"Scully! Scully!" I call frantically over my shoulder. "I need your help!"
My arms feel like they're being torn from their sockets. A series of
powerful jerks threaten to yank me off my feet.  

Scully rounds the corner, her gun drawn. She immediately aims and empties
her clip into the giant worm. White fluid explodes from the bullet holes,
but the creature doesn't release its hold on Guifford. My feet skid, inching
me across the snowy threshold. I flash Scully a desperate look, but she's
staring past me at Guifford. Her eyes widen, tears of alarm shimmer on her
lashes. 

"Nooooo!" she cries.

I turn just in time to see Guifford bring his ax down against his own shin,
separating him from the worm and the lower half of his leg. With the pull of
the worm now gone, I fall backward dragging Guifford with me. Scully slams
the door shut.

Blood pours from Guifford's amputated leg. Scully instantly strips off her
parka and gloves. She unfastens her belt and yanks it through the belt
loops. Wrapping the belt quickly around Guifford's severed knee, she cinches
the leather as tight as she can. The flow of blood slows but a lake of red
already surrounds Guifford.

"Hurry. Let's get him back to quarters," Scully orders. I'm surprised to
find Philp at my elbow. He helps me lift the big Security Chief. Guifford is
losing consciousness. Two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight drag at me
and Philp. 

Scully hurries a couple of yards ahead to the living quarters where she
holds open the door and waits for us. Draped across her arm, her parka flaps
like a flag in the strong wind. I'm about to insist she wear the coat when
the smooth bank of snow behind her shifts horizontally. I blink, trying to
make sense of what I'm seeing. As if in slow motion, the drift rises high
into the air. A small avalanche of snow rolls to the ground, softly burying
Scully's feet. A cavernous hole opens behind my tiny partner, dwarfing her
as it grows and expands to an alarming diameter. I think we've found the
mother worm. Or rather, she's found us. Oh, shit. Scully looks so small, so
entirely vulnerable. Focused on Guifford, she's totally unaware of the
threat at her back.

"Scully..." I whisper, my voice scraping across my vocal chords like sand. 

"Goddamn fuckers!" Philp hisses, startling me. He heaves Guifford into my
arms and knocks past Scully, shouldering her into the building. "Goddamn
mother-fuckers!" he screams. His blood-curdling howl echoes off the
buildings while he plunges his ax deeply into the head of the massive worm.
He hacks again and again at the monstrosity while I jostle Guifford inside.
I leave the Security Chief on the floor just inside the door and return to
help Philp. Shit! I have no weapon. The second ax is back in the generator
building where Guifford dropped it. I don't know where I left my propane
torch. I pull my gun realizing even as I do, it'll be useless against this
fifty-foot giant. I fire anyway. Even as the creature's enormous mouth
closes over Philp, I keep firing. I shoot every round. I continue to squeeze
the trigger after all the bullets are gone. The gun clicks impotently in my
fist. Scully is yelling into my ear, dragging at my coat.

"Mulder, get inside! Mulder! Now!" 

She jerks me through the open door just as the worm crashes into the
building, causing a thunderous tremor that shimmies the walls. The enormous
animal then rolls away only to return with another deafening blow. A light
fixture falls from the ceiling and smashes into a million needle-sharp
splinters across the floor. Several ceiling tiles tumble loose and spiral
through the air. 

"We've got to move Guifford further into the building," Scully tugs
uselessly on Guifford's coat with her one good hand. Another quaking strike
against the building's exterior wall propels me into action, lifting
Guifford under the arms and dragging him toward the more centrally located
bedrooms. Scully's found a first aid kit and is following me down the hall.
Out of breath, I stretch Guifford out on the floor. He's fading in and out
of consciousness. I lean against the wall and suck in a lungful of air while
Scully kneels to examine the big man's wound.

"We need to get him to a hospital," she grabs a blanket from the bed and
covers him. Her face is so serious, I know the Security Chief doesn't have
much time.

"I'll radio for help," I tell her.

I lurch down the swaying hall to the office. The endless pounding at the
front door grows so loud I can feel the vibration rattle inside my chest. I
try to ignore the insistent thumping and find the phone. Shit. Typical
office phone -- you have to dial nine or eight or something to get an
outside line. I keep guessing, punching numbers at random and hoping the
Good Lord will give me a break. Finally, the call rings through. A
receptionist at the Fairbanks FBI Field Office answers and I sputter my
badge number and spill my story in a rush of confusing words. She gets the
point, despite my frantic rambling. A chopper will be dispatched. I try to
warn her about the worm. I don't want the rescue team to arrive unprepared.
Certainly, she thinks I'm a raving lunatic, which only makes me lose my
temper and sound even crazier. She tells me to hang on. Sit tight. Help is
on the way. Her words are exactly what I want to hear. I hang up the phone
and hurry back to Scully.

"Is help coming?" she asks.

"Yes. They're sending a chopper. How's he doing?"

"Not well. He lost a lot of blood." 

Guifford groans. 

The building shakes.

"We may not be able to wait for the chopper, Scully."

Her lips press together. An angry crease wrinkles her brow. She will have
none of my gloomy predictions. I can't help but think about her own
optimistic prognostication last night. <We're going to save lives. This case
is going to help our average.> Sorry, Scully. Not this time.  

__________ 

Living Quarters
10:03 AM 

While the life drains out of Bob Guifford, Scully stands vigil and I
scrounge the Station for a few necessities...items we may need in the event
of an emergency escape. The mother worm continues her attack on the living
quarters and has managed to collapse the outer wall. I've barricaded us
inside the bedroom/kitchen area at the center of the building. If the worm
gets through to the kitchen, Scully and I are leaving even if I have to
carry her out of here. I plan to vacate Station 6 altogether on one of the
Arctic Cats stored in the maintenance garage. Of course, I haven't mentioned
any of this to Scully. As long as Guifford's still alive, she won't leave
him. Not by choice.   

It's been only fifteen minutes since I called Fairbanks. Shit.

Let's see. I've got snowshoes. Arctic tent. Road map. Extra socks. Hey, you
get stuck on an arctic ice sheet once and you learn to be prepared the next
time. I hope to hell there's gas in one of the Cats. At the last minute, I
think to grab Connelly's notes about the worms and pack them with the other
stuff. 

I've almost grown used to the regular drumming of the worm as it literally
beats down our door. Fallen debris litters the station's floors. Cracks run
up the walls. A couple of doorways lean crookedly, no longer rectangles but
parallelograms. I rejoin Scully in the bedroom where she keeps watch over
Guifford.

"Philp saved my life," she says dully.

"Yes. He did."

"Why? Why do you think he...?" she can't seem to finish her question.

"I dunno, Scully. Maybe the worms...the...it was all too much and he
snapped. Or maybe he was a better man than we gave him credit for."

"I thought...this case..." Again, her voice fades out.

I help her to her feet and wrap my arms around her. "I know, Scully," I
whisper into her hair. "The next case will turn out better."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I'll let you pick it."

"That'll be a first."

I almost laugh but Guifford shudders and Scully slips from my arms to check
him.

"His pulse is thready. He's barely breathing." 

He's dying, but she won't say it.

Although Scully accuses me of carrying the weight of the world on my
shoulders, blaming myself for life's iniquities, she similarly closes her
eyes to her own misguided feelings of guilt. Where I accept responsibility
for causing the tragedies that circle around me like wastewater down a
toilet, she feels equally responsible for curing all of man's ills. And she
regrets her failures every bit as much as I do. 

Scully is a healer who mistakenly believes no sickness or injury is too
great for her doctor's hands. Disease and accident are her enemies and she
fights them like a fearless warrior. Or a kamikaze pilot. She refuses to
accept defeat. I'm lucky to have her on my side. After all, I am her
foremost patient. She looks after me like an injured puppy. She continually
patches my wounds, both external and internal. Body and soul. Propping me up
on my own two feet time and time again, she doesn't abandon me to death or
despair. My neediness keeps her at my side. She is too determined to step
away and leave me untended. 

I'd like to think someday Scully would love me for the man I am, rather than
the man I'm not. But if my weaknesses keep her with me, so be it. I'd rather
have her by my side out of pity than not at all. And I am convinced mercy is
the only reason she stays with me. Knowing myself as I do, how could I think
otherwise?

A sudden crash of metal and glass in the kitchen forces the air from my
lungs as surely as an unexpected punch to the gut. Evidently, the worm has
breached our second line of defense. Only one wall remains.

"Scully..." I reach for her shoulder, wanting only to brush my fingertips
across her arm and ensure her attention, but she's bending over Guifford,
covering his mouth with her own. He's stopped breathing and she is trying to
kiss life into him. She pinches his nose and expands his lungs with her own
breath. In a practiced, fluid motion, she begins chest compressions. Each
pump upon his chest is matched by a thundering wallop from the worm. Our
meager fortress is crumbling.

"Scully..."

She won't quit. Eight minutes at least she expects to pummel Guifford's
chest and fill his lungs before she will give up. For eight minutes, there
still is hope. And Scully never turns her back on hope.

The mother worm thrashes and beats against the feeble wall between us. The
floor shakes. My dog-eared copy of 'Tremors' dances ironically across the
nightstand until it topples over the edge, pages fluttering as it falls. The
lamp tips and sways.

"Scully..."

Another jolting blow. Dust from broken sheetrock billows like tear gas
around our heads. Scully counts silently and pumps, pumps, pumps. Breathes. 

I stagger to the window and jerk the sash upward. I toss our two bulging
backpacks of emergency supplies out into the snow.

"Scully..."

Pump. Pump. Pump. Beads of sweat dot her upper lip. Her beautiful red hair
clings damply to her humid skin. Breathe.

"Scully, we're out of time." I lift her from Guifford. She struggles against
my unwanted embrace, desperate to return to her task. I hold her tight, use
my size and strength to enforce my will. "Scully, you can't save him."

"Mulder, there's still a chance..." Tears of frustration fill her eyes,
threatening to spill over her russet lashes.

"There is <no> chance." I thrust her coat at her and propel her toward the
small window. She fights me even as I hoist her to the sill.

"Mulder, please..."

"<No,> Scully. We have to go. <Now!>" 

She drops to the ground outside the window. The wall behind me explodes,
blasting me with debris. I haul myself through the tiny window and fall into
the snow beside Scully. Getting to my feet, I grab the two packs and
Scully's waiting hand. Together, we run to the maintenance garage and the
snowsleds.   

__________ 

Maintenance Garage
10:33 AM 

Jogging through the garage's open door, we're uncertain how much time we'll
have or need. Scully's angry with me, of course, but I don't care. <I just
saved your life, Scully, and you'll thank me for it someday...if we live
long enough to ever talk about it.> 

I unscrew the gas cap on the nearest snowmobile. Hallelujah! The tank is
full. Something's finally going right. Replacing the cap, I turn the key and
start the engine. Yes! The Cat purrs to life.

"Scully, get on."

Not exactly surrendering, Scully merely postpones our battle of wills and
straddles the sled. Her stern expression lets me know I'm not off the hook.
Not by any stretch of the imagination. Of course, I ignore her glower while
I help her shrug into one of the backpacks. Slipping my arms through the
straps of the second pack, I climb on the sled in front of her. Scully wraps
her arms around my ribs and hangs on tight when I squeeze the accelerator,
shooting the sled forward and carrying us out of the garage. 

I steer us in a wide arc away from the living quarters and out of Station 6.
As usual, I have no carefully considered plan of action. I'm operating on a
pitiful combination of pure instinct and sheer terror, simply trying to save
my sorry ass and hopefully Scully's pretty tush along with it. I twist to
get a look at her behind me. Shit! A blizzard of snow billows upward from
Station 6, a mini-tornado that can only be caused by the oncoming mother
worm.

In front of us, the frozen Yukon River carves a twisting trail into the
white landscape. The Patton Bridge is barely visible a quarter mile away
where it connects the north and south halves of Alaska's Dalton Highway. I
try to remember what was on the map. Have I mentioned I'm not very good at
reading maps? To be honest, I'm downright lousy at reading maps. Where was
the nearest town? North? South? My doubt convinces me that west must be the
real choice, despite the lack of road. It really doesn't matter. For now we
need to put a few miles between us and the worm.

Heading for the bridge, we travel roughly parallel with the zigzagging
pipeline. We hit a series of icy ridges carved by blowing winds and I have
to let up on the gas. The sled jogs roughly over the corrugated surface. A
spray of snow detonates skyward with each bounce. I glance over my shoulder
past Scully and see the worm is gaining on us. The massive animal moves like
a freight train through the fresh snow. 

Nearing the bridge, I grip the gas and try to pick up more speed. The
snowmobile slews dangerously sideways before the track catches and puts us
back on course. Damn it! The worm is closing faster than the Concord on a
couple of carrier pigeons. As for what to do next, I'm open to any and all
suggestions. 

When we turn onto the bridge, the worm is no more than fifty yards behind
us. We need to ditch the sled and take cover. And there's only one place for
us to go. Never let it be said that Fox Mulder doesn't think fast on his
feet. 

"Hang on, Scully!"

I skid to a stop. 

"Mulder, what are you doing?" she shrieks. 

Behind us, the giant worm has plowed onto the bridge. 

"Over the side!"

"Mulder, if we jump we'll die!"

"We're not going to jump," I have one leg already over the rail. "We're just
gonna hang out for awhile...underneath."

She thinks I've gone insane, but that's not an unfamiliar thought so she
follows me over the side. Just in time, too. The worm is skidding in our
direction, churning up snow and shaking the bridge like the span is a
half-mile long magic fingers bed. 

I wrap my legs tightly around a steel support and help Scully over the side.
One-handed, she's having trouble climbing. Her injury gives me a rare
opportunity to play the role of knight in shining armor. Because Scully
practically never needs saving  -- alien abductions aside -- my armor is
more rusty than shining, but I'm quite capable of carrying her to the
underside of this bridge. Christ, I've lifted case files that weigh more
than she does. 

"Mulder?" She asks a thousand questions in the brief pronouncement of my
name. <Do you know what you're doing? You won't let me fall, will you? Are
we going to die?>  

"Put your arms around my neck," I tell her, hoping like hell this is one
time she won't argue with me. She doesn't. Her arms embrace me. Christ
almighty, Allah be praised, she's trusting me! Hell, we may die here today,
but at least I'll go out looking like a hero. That's something. 

I shinny further down the support. Scully clings to my neck with a death
grip that threatens to choke off my air supply. The bridge trembles from the
rolling worm above. The thing is searching for us. I grab a metal truss and
let go of the support with my legs. Scully and I swing dizzily beneath the
bridge.

"Mulder!" Scully gasps.

"Don't look down."

"Too late."

"Under no circumstances describe to me what you saw."

"Okay. I'm closing my eyes."

"That's probably best," I agree when the enormous snout of the mother worm
oozes over the side of the bridge. Blindly, it searches the air for us. Its
head stretches, rises, falls, swings dangerously close.

"Jesus," I mutter and move, one shaky hand at a time, away from the outer
edge of the bridge. So okay, Scully may not weigh much, but our combined
weights are a definite strain on my arms. Not to mention that my gloves are
making it almost impossible to grip the truss. I nearly lose my hold when
the worm lifts its head skyward and then drops back onto the bridge with a
bone-jarring thud. A barely discernable hum of alarm escapes Scully's
throat.

"Did I ever tell you I used to be the best rope climber in my gym class,
Scully?" I lie.

"N-no."

"It's true." I inch further along the truss. If I can just make it another
couple of yards, there's a crossbar where I can put my feet. The worm
dangles its head over the side again. "I put the other kids to shame."

"How old were you?"

"Ten. But it's like riding a bike, Scully. You never forget how."

"So you're saying it's all technique, not stamina?"

"Any guy pushing forty will tell you that." The crossbar is still four feet
away. The worm curls downward and thrusts its head deeply beneath the
bridge. It almost touches me. "I'll bet you were good in gym yourself,
Scully," I try to distract us both. Three and half feet to go.

"Yes. I did pretty well hanging onto the best rope-climbing boy in school.
Oohh!" she blurts when the worm slaps against the road above us, vibrating
the bridge and chattering our teeth.

"Synchronized Rope Climbing. That's my favorite Olympic event, Scully." I
can't quite plant my foot on the crossbar yet. My fingers are growing numb.
The worm plunges its head back toward us, its mouth yawning open. In an
effort to escape the gaping jaws, I lunge for the crossbar. My snow covered
boots slip from the bar and Scully and I drop.

"Oohh!" she cries again while I grab wildly for the bar. I manage to hook
one arm over it. The metal truss cuts painfully into the crook of my elbow
as we dangle over the frozen river seventy feet below.

"Scully, can you reach the bar?"

"Uh...I think so."

I try to lift her toward the metal support with my free hand. She releases
my neck with first one arm than the other, twisting and hauling herself
slowly up over the truss.

"You got it?"

"Yes." She swings a shaky leg over the support. With her weight off me, I'm
able to pull myself up onto the truss. We sit side-by-side trying to catch
our breath and not look down between our feet. Overhead, the worm thrashes,
bouncing us until I start to feel a little seasick.

"Got any Dramamine on you, Scully?"

"Sorry. Musta left it in my other purse. So what do we do now, Mulder?" 

"Look out!" I shout. The worm dives at us, its mouth agape and its bristly
jaws trembling. We stare wide-eyed down into its dark throat. An
overwhelming reek of digesting meat assaults us. My stomach heaves and I gag
when I realize I'm looking at bits and pieces of Stanley Philp clinging to
the beast's wiry internal flesh. The razor-sharp coils churn inside the
mammoth body, ready to devour and shred us. The deep slits cut by Philp's ax
drip slushy white liquid onto our thighs. The worm rolls, spiraling its
cavernous maw around our heads. Its body twists, stretches, roils. With a
percussive jolt that threatens to propel us from our meager roost, the giant
vermiform suddenly slips and loses its purchase. The hulking body slides
noisily from the bridge, grinding across the pavement over our heads with an
ear-splitting tumult. Gravity pulls the monster inexorably toward the river.
Squirming in midair, the coiling giant plummets downward. When it hits the
ice, its enormous body splits and bursts like a fifty-foot long water
balloon. A spew of milky white liquid shoots across the frozen river,
saturating the snow.

"Well...that was kinda cool, huh, Scully?"    

__________ 

Patton Bridge
1:23 PM

"Mulder, where is the snowmobile?" Scully asks once we've managed to climb
back up to the road. 
      
"Hmm. Coulda sworn we parked in the Minnie Mouse Lot." 

"That's not funny, Mulder." Hands on her hips, she scans the length of the
bridge. She must really be ticked. Usually, she ignores my inane remarks.

We navigate around a series of chaotic snow banks left behind by the
flailing worm, and make our way to the opposite rail where together we lean
over the side and peer down at the river. Yep. Seventy feet down, smashed to
smithereens on the ice below, we see what can only be the shattered remains
of an Arctic Cat snowmobile. Damn.

"What now, Mulder?"

"Nice day for a little stroll, don'cha think, Scully?"

"Which way?"

"West." I look toward the sun, already low in the sky, despite the early
hour. Scully faces east.

"You didn't happen to bring a map, did you, Mulder?"

"As a matter of fact I did." I'm pretty pleased by my own atypical
forethought. I dig the map out of my pack and pass it to her. She carefully
unfolds it and considers our options.

"East," she proclaims. "Stevens Village is about twenty-five miles from
here."

"Twenty-five! Scully, it'll take a couple of days to walk twenty-five miles
in the snow."

"Well, we could go back to the station to wait for the rescue helicopter.
Connelly said annelids are hermaphroditic. It's possible the mother worm had
no mate."

Hmm.

"East, Scully?"

"It's the closest town and we can easily find it by following the river." 

So, we head east along the frozen Yukon River. On foot. On snowshoes,
actually. It's cold. Really cold. And considering I've been both
figuratively and literally frozen before, well, suffice to say, I know cold
when I feel it.

And there is nothing on the planet frostier than Scully's current
disposition.

I look back at her. She's trailing me by fifty yards at least, her head
down, trying to avoid being snow-blasted. She's watching her feet, careful
not to stray from the disappearing tracks of my snowshoes. Maybe that's why
she doesn't see the helicopter closing in on us from the west. Praise sweet
Jesus. The cavalry has finally arrived.     

__________ 

Fairbanks Hotel
7:25 AM

Damn! My razor scrapes painfully across my frostbitten face. This might be a
good time to try growing a beard. My face looks terrible. I wonder if
frostbite leaves scars.

"Mulder?"

"In the bathroom, Scully."

"I knocked but you didn't answer," she says through the door. "Your door was
unlocked, so..."

"I'm just shaving, Scully. I'll be right out."

"Okay."

I run the offending razor over my jaw once more and decide to give up when I
nick my weather-damaged skin for the umpteenth time. Past caring what I look
like anymore, I carefully wipe the remaining shaving cream from my face with
a towel, revealing a hodgepodge of smooth and whiskered skin. Shit.

"Scully, will I have permanent scars from this?" I join her in the outer
room and let her examine my frost-injured cheeks.

"Only if you keep picking at it. Don't touch!"

Gazing into the mirror above the bureau, I squint at my patchy reflection.

"Our plane leaves in forty-five minutes," I remind her needlessly. "Are you
ready?" I can see that she is. Her suitcase rests beside mine next to the
door. She sits on the bed thumbing through Connelly's notebook.

"Looks like you were right, Mulder."

A man can't hear those words too many times.

"What?"

"I said, it looks like... You know exactly what I said, Mulder."

"Right about what?" 

"A connection between the appearance of the snow worms and the red aurora."

"Really?"

"According to Connelly's notes, it's possible that telluric currents, the
phenomenon that generates the Northern Lights, might also be responsible for
awakening the worms from their periods of hibernation, prompting them to
breed. He speculates the coil of abrasive digestive tissue may have
something to do with the creature's sensitivity to the current's variations
-- either in and of itself or by way of the metallic rock fragments embedded
within the tissue. He postulates the worms' life cycles can be predicted.
That the next influx of worms can be calculated by looking at past recorded
occurrences of the red aurora."

"The Field Office should be made aware of those notes, Scully. Lives could
be saved, even if it's years down the road."

"I already faxed a set of copies."

"See, Scully? If you look at the big picture, maybe we did help our average
with this case."

"Maybe," she shrugs.

I sit on the bed next to her.

"We're not to blame for Guifford's death, Scully. Either one of us." 

"I know, Mulder. Really."

I'm not convinced. I carefully lift her bandaged hand. She looks up at me,
all of yesterday's anger gone. It's clear she doesn't hold me responsible
for Guifford, despite the fact that I forced her to leave him. Her
expression is beautiful. She looks like she did when she first saw the
startling red aurora. 

Maybe I should tell her how I really feel about her. 

Maybe.

Maybe.

"Scully...would you ever...consider marrying me?"

A soft snort of laughter blows through her nose. She looks at me through her
lashes and offers me a tiny smile. Her smile fades when she senses I'm
serious. I try to think of a joke to restore the natural balance of our
relationship, but my unhelpful mind draws a blank. Her baby blues bore into
my pupils, digging for information. Then her eyes flood when she sees me
nervously swallow. Pity briefly visits her features before she controls her
expression. At least, I think it's pity. Or maybe I'm only reading my own
expectations into her reaction.

"Are you proposing?" she challenges, purposely opening a door for my escape.


Like an idiot, I decide to ignore her proffered exit. Only the status quo
remains through that way out and frankly, I've grown weary of our nebulous
relationship.

"I'm asking if you would ever <consider> marrying me." 

Now she's all squinting suspicion, trying to uncover the trap I must be
laying for her. 

"It's not a trick question, Scully. Not that I'd blame you if you answered
no. I...I know you could do a lot better." 

Pity again. But maybe I forced that hand. 

"I don't think about us that way, Mulder," she says carefully, looking away.

She's a terrible liar. Not practiced like I am.

"Come on, Scully. People assume we're married all the time. You musta
thought about it at least once or twice."

"Have you?"

Christ, she's turned the tables on me. How is it I'm an expert at profiling
everyone else in the world but I can't figure out what's in this woman's
head? Or more importantly, what's in her heart. Despite the fact that she's
always engaged in evasive maneuvers, I should be able to uncover some small
shred of insight at least occasionally. The numbers are on my side, if
nothing else.

"Yes." Ha! I decide to leave it at that. Let her try to figure out what I'm
thinking for once.

We stare at each other. A full minute passes. Another ticks excruciatingly
by.

Christ, I can't beat her at this game.

"I mean...I guess I really picture you with someone else, Scully."

Her eyebrow arches gracefully toward her hairline.

"You do?"

"Well...yeah...you know. Someone more...more..."

"More?"

What can I tell her? What should I tell her? <Run away, Scully. My kiss is
the kiss of death.> Hell, I've buried more women than most of the serial
killers we've chased. Scully's life is in danger every minute she's with me.
Shit, she almost died yesterday because she went with me on this damn
monster hunt.

"You saved my life yesterday," she suddenly says, as if reading my mind,
successfully profiling the profiler. "I haven't thanked you yet."

I just blink at her. Where I see the glass as half empty, she's been looking
at it as half full. She smiles. Squeezes my hand with her uninjured one.
Plants a feather soft kiss on my lips.

"Thank you, Mulder," she says and rises from the bed. "Come on. We don't
want to be late for our flight." She tucks Connelly's notebook into her bag,
crosses the threshold and heads down the hall.


THE END 

Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my 
stories. Send comments to nejake@tds.net. I'm 
obviously not a professional writer so any pearls of wisdom 
you could pass my way would be most helpful and 
appreciated. Thanks!

--Cin

My other fanfic (look on Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spooky's or email me for a
copy):

"The Boogeyman"
"Madjahando"
"Deep Freeze"
"Split Second"
"Greetings from Maine"
"The Coiled Serpent"
"Devil's Roar"
"Acquitted" (NC-17)
"SHII"
"Encore" (NC-17)
"Impulse"
"Dominion"
"Annelid"