TITLE: In the Jungle AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out. SPOILER STATEMENT: Orison. One Breath. The Blessing Way/Paper Clip. RATING: PG-13 CONTENT STATEMENT: Bad language, including the "f" word. Violence. SkinnerAngst CLASSIFICATION: VA SUMMARY: Post-ep for Orison. "Those are the only people who live in the jungle: Us and Them. There are no neutrals; there are no non-combatants; there is no middle ground. Just Us and Them. And the monsters, of course. The monsters are always there." THANKS: To Paulette, Robbie, Shannon, Sharon & Trixie. You know the drill. DISCLAIMER: In my dreams... In the Jungle by Brandon D. Ray I've fallen behind, and I have to run to catch up. This is not good, I think. Being alone is dangerous here in the jungle. Being alone, without a buddy to back you up, can be fatal, and not just in the obvious ways. Monsters live in the jungle; monsters that will consume a man's soul, if he lets them. Monsters that will turn *you* into a monster, and leave nothing behind but a shell. I hurry along the wall of the hut. It's barely a wall, really; just thatch and mud. It's primitive, like everything else in Vietnam -- everything outside the cities, at any rate. It's hot and muggy, but I no longer really notice that. It's always hot and muggy here. All I really feel anymore is the fear. The fear. Even as this thought flashes through my mind, I hear the gunshots. Three of them, so closely spaced that I can't tell where one ends and the next begins. I reach the corner of the building and pause -- because I've been in country long enough to know that you don't just go charging around a corner without looking. Not if you want to stay alive, which I still do. Most of the time. I peer around the edge of the building -- And I sigh in relief. It wasn't one of Us. It was one of Them. Those are the only people who live in the jungle: Us and Them. There are no neutrals; there are no non-combatants; there is no middle ground. Just Us and Them. And the monsters, of course. The monsters are always there. This man was one of Them. This man, lying in a pool of his own blood, dressed in black pajamas, was an enemy, rather than a friend. Rather than a buddy. I walk towards him, now, and towards the small knot of Us standing around him, and as I do, the Lieutenant draws his sidearm and puts one more bullet in the middle of the dead man's forehead. You don't take chances with one of Them. I'm still breathing hard, and the adrenaline is still pumping in my veins; I'm still afraid. The smell of blood fills my nostrils, the smell of blood and gunpowder, and I'm afraid. I'm always afraid. Seeing one of Them lying dead at my feet does nothing to alleviate this, because I know by now, I've learned by now, that there are always more of Them, hiding out there in the jungle. And even if, somehow, we killed every last one of our human enemies, that would just mean that the monsters would have no one to focus on but Us. I'm afraid. I detect motion out of the corner of my eye, and I spin about. It's a human form -- a boy, I realize, perhaps ten years old, and he must be one of Them, because he isn't one of Us. Even as I make this identification, my rifle is rising, seemingly of its own volition. A bell is ringing in my head; an alarm bell, triggered by the sudden appearance of the boy and fed by the fear. I feel my teeth grinding together, and I hear a snarl, and I know that it's me, and my finger caresses the trigger of my weapon, as gentle as a lover's touch -- And the boy's head explodes in a cataract of blood and bone. For a moment he remains standing, perfectly still, and I finally process the fact that his body is covered with grenades, before he topples to the ground. But in my head, the alarm bell continues to ring -- I awaken suddenly, and my body is bathed in sweat. For a moment I'm confused; disoriented. I can still smell the jungle, and the gunpowder, and the blood, and it takes me a moment to understand that it was only a dream. Only a dream. I'm in bed, and I'm safe. The jungle is half a world away and nearly thirty years gone. I'm safe. It was only a dream. Then the bell rings again, the alarm I was hearing in my dream, and I realize it's the telephone. Groggily, fighting down the new rush of fear brought on by the sound of the phone, I reach out and grab the handset off the nightstand. "Yeah." It's all I can manage at the moment, in my half-awake state; low and grating and rough around the edges. There's a moment of silence; then an unfamiliar male voice says, "I'd like to speak to Walter Skinner, please." Immediately, I snap to full wakefulness. I can hear "official call" in this man's voice, and in a matter of seconds I'm sitting upright and reaching for my glasses. "This is Skinner," I reply. "Talk to me." "Sir," the man's voice responds, "this is Detective Christopher, DCPD. I'm calling to report that one of your agents has been involved in a shooting." My hand tightens on the phone, even as I feel my stomach clenching. "Who?" "Scully," he replies, after a brief hesitation. "Dana Scully." He pauses again, just long enough for me to fear his next words, then continues, "And she seems to be perfectly fine, other than a few cuts and bruises -- the paramedics are still checking her. But she asked me to call and let you know." "What about her partner?" I ask. Because if there's been a shooting, and Scully was involved, Mulder is sure to be nearby. "Fox Mulder." "Just a sec." I hear Christopher's voice, muffled, as he apparently calls to someone else in the room. "Hey, Joey; we got a Fox Mulder here? An Agent Mulder?" A few eternal seconds later he comes back on the line. "Sorry, Sir," he says. "I just got here. And yeah, Agent Mulder's fine, too. He won't come to the phone, though; you know how it is." Yeah, I know how it is, and so does Christopher. We're both cops, and we understand about partners -- just as any soldier can tell you about the importance of a buddy. "That's fine, Detective Christopher," I reply. I'm already out of bed and starting to get dressed, the phone cradled against my shoulder. "Where are you?" He starts to rattle off a Georgetown address, and I immediately recognize it as hers. "Okay," I say, cutting him off. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." And I hang up the phone without waiting for a response. # # # I've only been to Dana Scully's apartment once, and it was not by invitation. It was years ago, when I was forced by circumstance to execute a search warrant at her home, and the day ended with me looking down the barrel of her SIG. But I still remember where she lives, and the traffic at this time of night is not heavy. Nevertheless, the trip seems to take forever, and I'm too tense to wait until I arrive to find out what happened. Halfway there, I dial Scully's number, and ask the man who answers to put Christopher on the line again. In a few succinct sentences he lays it out for me, while I navigate the streets of Georgetown. That son of a bitch, Pfaster, invading her home. Assaulting her and beating her, binding her hand and foot and throwing her in the closet. Preparing for his gruesome ritual with the candles and the scissors and the knives. Drawing her a bath. Mulder arriving in the nick of time, but the fucker refusing to surrender. Scully, somehow free of her bonds, returning to the living room and dropping the hammer on her assailant in sheer desperation. In my mind's eye I can see it happening. I can almost hear the shots, and I can definitely smell the gunpowder and the blood as Pfaster falls to the floor. His eyes roll up in the back of his head, and his heart and breathing stop abruptly. He's dead. He's dead. But there's something more there; I can hear it in the cool, dispassionate tones of this stranger, as he recites these facts to me. There's something he's not telling me, or perhaps there's something he himself doesn't know. Something he only suspects, maybe. And I feel the blood chilling in my veins as I wonder what sort of man Detective Christopher is. Does he know about the jungle? Does he smell the blood and the gunpowder? Does he understand about the monsters? Does he feel the fear? I push the thoughts away, and refuse to worry about it. Christopher is a cop, I tell myself, and cops protect their own. Even if he doesn't know the things I know, Christopher will fathom that much, at least, and he'll do the right thing. He understands about partners, after all; he understands about buddies. And I know, without ever having met the man, that he will not betray that trust. He may not approve of what she did -- whatever it is that she did do -- and he may or may not fully comprehend it. But he will not throw Dana Scully to the wolves. He will not give her to Them. At last I terminate the call, just as I'm pulling to a halt in front of Scully's apartment building. There are half a dozen black and whites scattered along the street, their lights flashing, and a couple of ambulances, as well. A crowd of bystanders has also formed, even at this hour of the night, and are being held at bay by several uniformed officers. As I climb from my car one of the cops approaches me, but I flash my badge at her and she allows me to pass. As I reach the bottom of the steps, the front door to the building opens, and there they are: Mulder and Scully. He's carrying a small suitcase, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist. They step out onto the front stoop, and then they see me and they freeze in place. "Good evening, Agents," I say, keeping my voice calm and level. It isn't a good evening, of course, and we all know it, but I can't think of anything else to say. And after a moment, Mulder answers. "Sir," he says. His voice is cool and professional. Remote. "We were just leaving." "I understand, Agent Mulder," I reply. "I won't keep you." But for a moment I continue to stand there, blocking the steps, as I study them. They're standing close together tonight; closer together than I can ever recall seeing them before. They're actually leaning into each other, just a little, as if they were holding each other up; as if they were each other's sole means of support. As if holding on to each other is the only way they can remain standing. As if it were the only way they can keep the monsters away. The monsters. I shiver as the realization hits me once again. The monsters don't just live in the jungle, and I've known that for a long time. But it still gives me pause whenever I'm reminded of it; it makes it harder for me to fight back the fear, and keep it under control. Because if the monsters don't just live in the jungle, if they lurk here, in the nice, safe city, then I'm not really secure after all. I know that, I've *always* known that -- but most of the time I'm able to ignore it. Most of the time, I can go to the grocery store, or take in a movie, or enjoy an early morning run, without constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering when *something* is suddenly going to reach out and grab me. The way, tonight, *something* suddenly reached out and tried to grab Dana Scully. I shudder, as I suddenly realize what it is that Christopher wasn't saying when we spoke on the phone. A monster has been destroyed here, tonight. A monster has been destroyed. It came out of the jungle and tried to take one of Us, but she beat it at its own game. Despite the odds, and despite its inhuman strength and lack of pity or remorse, she destroyed it, and the world is now a slightly safer place. I wonder if she understands that? At just this moment, Scully lifts her head and looks me straight in the eye. For a few endless seconds our gazes lock, and in that timeless moment, I see everything I'm ever likely to know about how she feels. There are no words to describe it, of course; no words that would make sense to anyone whose own eyes don't look that way. The way mine look. And Mulder's. And hers. It's a special kind of horror; a sadness; a mourning. It's a loss of innocence, and a realization that the world will never be the same again. It's all these things, and more, and less, and I wish for a moment that I could take her in my arms, and hold her like the daughter I never had. I wish I could tell her that everything is going to be okay. I wish I could tell her that it's over. I wish I could tell her that she's safe. But I can't do that, and not just because it would be a lie. I can't hold her, and I can't comfort her, because in *her* mind I'm not one of Us; I'm one of Them. This is something I've known for a long time; I saw it in her eyes when she and Mulder sat across from me the day they got the X-Files back. It was not new knowledge, even then; thinking back, I'm not sure she's ever really trusted me. Nor should she. I'm not her partner. I'm not her buddy. I'm not one of Us. I'm one of Them. I realize that I'm still standing at the foot of the steps, blocking their way. I should hold them here, I think distantly. I should get statements from them, and hear their accounts of what happened here tonight. They're my agents, after all. I'm responsible, for them and for their actions. So I should keep them here, at her apartment, and demand their explanations. I should demand *her* explanation. I should demand to know how she came to destroy this monster, Donnie Pfaster. But I'm not going to do that, and we all know it. The lines were drawn between the three of us a long time ago, and my own actions this past year have only served to reinforce that. My only role, now, is that of spectator. My only utility is as a stalking horse. My only function is to witness their acts of faith -- and, if it should come to that, their martyrdom. Mulder clears his throat, and at last I step back out of the way. Scully is no longer looking at me; it seems that she's noted my presence and gauged my intentions, and now I hold no further interest for her. Mulder glances at me briefly as they reach the bottom of the steps -- a thank you, I think. A recognition. A guarded acknowledgement between two men who are not really enemies, but who aren't quite friends, either. Then they walk past me and turn up the street, perfectly in step, as always. I continue to stand there, watching them, until finally they disappear into the night. Then I turn and climb the steps. There's blood waiting for me here tonight. Blood and gunpowder. And fear. Fini