Chapter 17: I’m a Rover

Mulder groaned as he slowly came awake, wondering muzzily why the bed felt so hard and if the taste of dirt in his mouth was just bad dream residue. With an effort he rolled onto his side and felt something in his stomach turn over like hot tapioca when he moved. Gagging and coughing, he tried to open his eyes.

‘I’m blind!’ his mind screamed, and a moment later common sense exclaimed, ‘It’s dark, stupid!’ And then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized he could see a little.

At first he wondered if he had somehow been transported back in time, and he glanced around frantically, trying to see Scully or a giant one celled monster intent on drugging and eating him.

Instead he saw Walter Skinner lying on his back just a few feet away.

“Walter?” Mulder pushed himself to his knees, endured another bout of nausea and crawled over to his lover. He took a minute or none to assess Skinner’s condition, and then shook him hard. “Walter!”

Skinner made some fuzzy sound deep in his throat, muttered something else that sounded like ‘wabbit’, then opened his eyes. He blinked owlishly at Mulder, and then sat up so suddenly that the other man stumbled and fell back on his ass with a startled grunt.

Another wave of sickness crashed on the shores inside Mulder’s stomach, and he gagged and turned his head, spitting up something acidic.

“Mulder? Mulder!” Skinner was on his knees in a flash, clutching Mulder in his arms in less time than that. “What the hell is going on?”
 

”Shhh…” Mulder ran his hands over Skinner’s head and down the sides of his face, trying to soothe away the confusion that was bordering on full-fledged panic.  When he saw that he had Skinner’s attention, he said, “I think we’re in it now, Walter. Someone shot you—shot us—“

“I don’t remember—“ Skinner interjected.

“That’s okay; I know. Main thing now is to get out of here—wherever here is.”  Carefully he pulled away from Skinner and rose to his feet. Closed his eyes against a wave of vertigo and noticed again the thick, earthy smell of the space they were in.

“We’re underground,” said Skinner and Mulder knew he was right He opened his eyes and watched Skinner climb to his feet just as shakily as he had done himself a moment ago. They gazed solemnly through the darkness at one another.

“My glasses…” Skinner sighed.

“Least of our problems, big guy,” Mulder replied, giving Skinner’ shoulder what he hoped was a comforting pat and a squeeze. Then he looked past him to where the dim light in the room was originating.

An opening; a window, maybe; now boarded up but weak daylight was pushing valiantly between the slats, making it possible for Mulder to see dust motes dancing in the air.

He approached the window tentatively, hands held out in front of him. When they encountered solid wall, he pressed hard on the boards, and they gave slightly with an angry squeal of aged wood and rusty nails.

“That’s a good sign,” he muttered. He pushed again, harder this time, and more dust tickled his nose as the wood gave another groan of protest.

Suddenly Skinner was beside him, elbowing him aside, and before he could do more than make a startled yelp, a shaft of light and rain burst into the room as Skinner put his fist through the center board.

“Well, that worked,” Mulder said. The sarcastic lilt to his voice disappeared as Skinner pulled his hand back and the brighter light revealed dripping blood.

“Oh, Walter, your hand…”

The fist stayed resolutely clenched, and so did Skinner’s jaw as he brushed off Mulder’s concern.

“It’s fine. Let’s see if there’s—“

“A door!” they exclaimed in unison.

Now they could see that the floor and walls were dirt. More old boards squared off each wall and supported the ceiling, which was also just dirt, with what looked like a tree root system working its way in and out of the dirt, helping to support the structure naturally. On the same wall as the window there was a door. But as both men rushed over to it at the same time, and then came to a frowning halt in front of it, it became clear that Skinner’s fists weren’t going to be much use here.

The wood was solid, thick, and as was apparent when Skinner gave it an experimental shove, barred from the outside. Another hard shove by Mulder only succeeded in jarring his shoulder painfully and dropping dirt from the ceiling into his hair and onto his face. He sneezed twice in quick succession, and then grinned ruefully.

“The window it is, then,” he said.

Together they pulled away the rotten boards and broken glass, muttering dark curses under their breath when they cut their hands, but not stopping until the space was clear.

“Ladies first?” Skinner cupped his hands together to give Mulder a boost through the window.

“Funny guy,” Mulder gripped the window frame, stepped into the stirrup that Skinner’s hands had formed, and hoisted himself halfway through the window.

Rain was falling steadily, cold and wet, and must have been doing so for sometime. As Mulder clawed at the ground in front of the window, his hands slipped through wet grass and mud.

He felt Skinner’s hands on his ass, helping him through, and he couldn’t help grinning.

And then he was through and scrambling to his feet. He turned back to the window and realized they’d been locked in some sort of dugout. The land sloped in front of it so that the window was at ground level and so was the door. Looking past the dugout, he saw trees, and then more trees, looking very much like every other part of the forest. And yet, there was something familiar here. Not the location, but something someone had said once. Something about it being safe, or…

Before he could follow the thought through to fruition, Skinner’s arms and head emerging from the window distracted him. His hands were clutching the grass greedily, trying to get purchase on the rain-slick ground to pull himself the rest of the way through.

Mulder grabbed for Skinner, almost lost his grip on hands wet with blood and rain, then caught him again higher up, finding purchase on less slippery wrists. He gave a terrific yank, and Skinner shot out of the window like a cork from a bottle, crashing into Mulder and they both tumbled to the ground. Rain continued to fall, and sudden sheet lighting illuminated the scene with an accompanying crash of thunder.

Skinner blinked rain out of his eyes and pushed himself off of Mulder. He got to his feet and held a wet hand out to his lover. When Mulder was standing, they hugged briefly, silently acknowledging that they were both whole and still alive, and then Mulder disengaged himself from the embrace and peered into the rain and gloom.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked.

Skinner frowned, looking back over the dugout. Squinting didn’t help. “I think I might…” he said, turning the frown upwards, catching rain on his face and unable to see stars at all. “I think we’re—“

“In a world of hurt, Mr. Skinner.”

“What--?”

Both men turned to see Marita Covarrubias standing in front of them, a clear rain slicker protecting her black sweater and pants, with a matching clear hood thrown over her blonde hair. She was holding Mulder’s gun in her right hand—the rain couldn’t slick up the grip her leather-gloved hand had on it. But more frightening to Mulder than the gun was the small metal case she had clutched in the other hand.

“Oh, shit…”

***

Doggett banged on the door to the cabin again while Scully peered into the living room window.

“That’s odd,” she murmured.

“Damned peculiar,” Doggett agreed. One more knock, this one hard enough to make his knuckles smart, and then a lecherous smile replaced his frown.

“Maybe they’re doing more ‘wrestling’.”

Scully tried to frown at his clowning, but a brief memory of their own unplanned afternoon wrestling match made her smile instead.

“I don’t think it would occur to Mulder to lock the door,” she said, still trying to see any sign of life inside the cabin.

“I’ll check around back. Maybe they just went for walk or somethin’” said Doggett.

“The truck!” Scully exclaimed suddenly. “Where is it?”

Doggett looked over at his own truck as if expecting Skinner’s SUV to suddenly materialize next to it. Then he shook his head and silently berated himself for his own sloppy observation skills. He should have noticed that right off, and he said so.

“I think we were both distracted,” said Scully. “Maybe they just went for a drive. Mulder told me there’s a place around here that they visited once—gondolas and mountain goats and all kinds of stereotypical rugged majesty.”

“Still,” Doggett replied. “Do you really think they’d be playing tourist in the rain? And now? When Skinner’s—you know—“

“I know, but…”

Doggett saw a familiar worried frown cross Scully’s face; he thought of that thin lipped expression as her ‘Mulder face’ and there were days when he thought he could cheerfully strangle the man who put that look on her face far too often.

“I’ll still check around back. Here,” he said, handing her his keys. “There’s a skeleton on there somewhere that might get the door open.”

Scully took the key ring and started sorting through them, while Doggett moved around to the side of the cabin, not sneaking exactly, but not announcing his presence either. For no good reason, his nerves were starting to hum; it was a feeling he knew well from dozens of stakeouts. Something in his mind warning his body that there were villains afoot, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to get an ass kicking like no other.

He didn’t like the feeling, but couldn’t seem to control it.

He had just made it around the side of the building, and was staring through the rain out at the field behind the cabin and the forest just beyond that when he heard a gun shot.

“What the hell--?” He froze, balanced on the balls of his feet, all his senses straining through the rain and the gloom to try and figure out where the shot had come from.

A second sound, loud as the first, and he looked out again towards the trees, then turned back when he heard Scully running towards him from behind.

“John!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s not chipmunks, that’s for damned sure. I’m going out there.” He pulled the gun he had no business wearing out of its holster and thanked whatever spirits had possessed him to strap it on when they’d left Banff.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No way, Dana, it’s too—“

“Don’t even, John Doggett.” Another shot interrupted her, and a shout that could have been anyone. “I’m going to get the phone and my kit, and I’ll be right behind you.” Before Doggett could argue, she gave him a firm shove. “Go!” and then ran off in the other direction, back towards the front yard and the truck.

“Damn,” he muttered, and started towards the trees, jogging at first, then speeding up at the sound of still more gunshots.

End 17/19