By Kelly Moreland
k_a_moreland@hotmail.com
Archive : Anywhere, just let me know.
Spoilers : Existence.
Rating : R for less than pleasant images.
**SPECIAL WARNING** : Due to some graphic material discretion is
advised. This is not a nice piece of fic... Please proceed with
caution.
Category : Disaster, honorific images, Sk-torture, of the
psychological kind.. No.. of ALL kinds... OK, just imagine him
being run through an emotional Roto-rooter....
Summary : 9 days in hell.
Feedback : Is always appreciated k_a_moreland@hotmail.com
Web site : www.kellymoreland.50megs.com
Disclaimer : In the big inning, CC *created* M & S, and the
fans saw that it was good. Then CC proclaimed 'Let them
have any fun, and I will sue you!' And the fans saw that
this was bad, and did it anyway. ;-)
Authors note : I like Skinner, I really do! I have no idea why I
did this to him. I hope he, and you, can forgive me.
9 days
by Kelly Moreland
Day 1
-- The Crash -- Aftermath
To be a little more comfortable, Walter Skinner stretched his
legs out in the aisle of the plane. He had two more days he could
have stayed in Seattle, but his meetings had wrapped up today and
he was ready to leave. D.C. was home and he'd be damn glad to get
back to it. So glad, in fact, that he'd booked the red-eye
flight.
There was something to be said for mid-night flights. They were
quiet. The DC-10 had only a handful of passengers in the coach
section, and he was certain that first class was empty
altogether.
As the plane lifted off and began it's late night sojourn across
America, he debated on a nap; instead he pulled the new Tom
Clancy novel from his carry on bag and started to read. Hours
passed with few interruptions into his book before he idly
noticed the personal lights over each seat had been turned off
one by one, until his was the only one remaining.
So at 3:18 when darkness and silence hit without warning, he was
acutely aware of it.
When the light shining down on the pages of his book flickered
twice and then went out, he looked up with a puzzled frown. Then
he noticed the silence. It was so deafening to his ears that at
first the ramifications didn't register in his mind.
/Engines. Why can't I hear the engines?/
He felt it then, the gentle shift of the jet as it began to nose
down. He'd been in enough military jets, planes, and transports
when he was in the Marines to understand what it meant.
No power. No Control. We're going down.
In the most basic reflex he wanted to call out a warning, to wake
the quietly sleeping people nearby. But chaos would help no one.
There was still time for the pilot to pull up. There had to be
time.
/There may be time, but there's no power. You can't pull a plane
up by sheer force of will./
He fastened his seat belt and leaned forward, lacing his fingers
over the back of his head, bracing for impact. When it came an
eternity later, it was bone jarring.
He felt the jet hit the ground, and lurch upward again, the
seat belt digging cruelly into his lap. The tension from that
small swath of fabric was so intense that he nearly vomited. The
second impact came with the screech of twisting metal, and a
sudden blast of cold air chilled his back and broke goose flesh
out over his skin.
The jarring double impact was no better then the slide that
followed it. He felt the plane moving sideways. Gaining speed.
He realized then, that not all the screams he heard were made of
metal. Voices of men, women, and somewhere a crying baby could be
heard now, mingled with the deep groan of heavy steel sliding
against earth.
He had kept himself tucked low and safe, until the rolling
started. As the plane began to tumble, he instinctively reached
out to grab something. His hands desperately settled on the back
of the seat in front of him and he squeezed it tightly, as his
world tilted, whirled and righted itself for a brief moment
before beginning the cycle again. The seats in front of him
suddenly collapsed and jerked him forward, snapping his seat
belt. The next rotation threw him hard against the far wall and
his world went black.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Skinner struggled to escape a deep haze of pain and cold,
blinking his eyes open. His head throbbed, and the left side of
his face felt misshapen and swollen. He spread his arms out
slowly and flexed his numb fingers, feeling a cool, wet powder
beneath them. He realized then, that he could feel small damp
spots hitting his cheeks.
/Snow. I'm lying on my back in the snow?/
Bracing his weight carefully on his hands, he sat up. The moonlit
hillside and falling snow would have been picturesque under
different circumstances, but no beauty could register in his
dazed mind. He looked over his right shoulder and saw the
wreckage of the plane several yards below him; it's battered hull
snapped in half like a pencil. It's wings sheared away and no
where to be seen.
He stood up slowly, his ears ringing and his head throbbing
mercilessly. His chest blossomed into sharp jabs of pain with
each breath he drew, telling him at least two of ribs were
cracked. He staggered slowly down the hillside. As he neared
the wreck, he could hear voices. Cries for help.
He grabbed the side of the plane, and leaned on it to catch his
breath. The journey of a few yards had been agonizing.
The interior of the cabin was dark and a sharp, familiar smell
tainted the air. It was a few seconds before he recognized the
coppery scent. It was blood. Gritting his teeth against the pain,
he moved into the front section plane.
He made it just a few feet before he stumbled hard against
something laying in the aisle, and he went down; falling across
the body of a young woman. His hand brushed against the damp,
slightly tacky, flesh of her neck as he felt for a pulse. He
didn't find one. He gently moved her aside and stood up once
more, wiping the blood of the unknown woman against his pant leg.
He moved further into the darkness.
"Can anyone hear me?" he called out, wincing both at the sound of
his own voice, and the throb of his swollen face.
Two voices answered, and he moved cautiously toward the
closest one, holding onto anything he could to keep his balance.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, needing to hear the voice again; to
pinpoint it in the darkness.
"Yes. I.. My chest hurts and I can't breathe!" A woman answered,
her voice verging on hysterics.
He knelt down by the voice, and reached out to her. A hand
grasped his desperately, and held on.
"Please get me out of here?" she begged.
"It's probably best not to move you. Just try to relax, help will
be here soon. Just lie still." He gave her hand a reassuring
squeeze, and moved on to the next voice.
"I need help. Over here. Please," A man's voice said from
somewhere to his right.
"Keep talking so I can find you," Skinner called to him, He
bumped into something soft and reached down to feel the back of a
seat blocking the aisle.
He swore under his breath and tried to maneuver around it.
A thin beam of light cut the darkness, as he stepped around the
seat.
"My legs are trapped. I can't move them," the owner of the
flashlight said, his voice shaky with fear. He held the
flashlight up and Skinner took it; a small penlight on a key
chain, and directed the beam down to the mans legs. There was
nothing pinning him down. He was paralyzed.
"You need to stay still. Help will come. Just take it easy, ok?"
Skinner's words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
He shined the flashlight ahead, and could see no one else moving;
no one else calling for help. He limped forward and surveyed the
rest of the cabin. The bodies of a dozen men and women were
strewn across the interior. He checked each one carefully, but
found no signs of life. He moved through the empty first class
section of the plane, and opened the cockpit door. One look at
the mangled bodies of the three crewmen inside was all he needed
to know that nothing could help them now. Skinner picked up a
busted radio headset and held it to his ear. He heard nothing. He
flipped the radio's power button a few times before throwing the
headset down in disgust. He dug out his cell phone but found a
'no service' message displayed on the Nokia screen.
"Does anything _fucking_ work on this plane?" he growled,
receiving no answer from the dead crewmen of the plane.
He inched his way back to the sheared off section of the plane.
The cold air outside sharpened his senses, and cleared his head.
His sense of honor, both as a Marine and an A.D. with the Bureau,
urged him forward. So far he was the only one capable of helping
anyone, and his duty was to the other survivors. He ignored his
own pain, and continued his search.
The rear section of the plane was in worse shape than the front.
The luggage compartments had collapsed under the weight of the
impact, and the floor was warped and twisted beneath his feet. He
gripped the small flashlight in his teeth, and used his hands
steady himself as he moved among the wreckage.
Every body he came to was cold and still. He turned to leave when
something caught his attention. He lifted a section of seats and
found an infant carrier, still strapped in place, and a tiny baby
inside it.
/No. Not this./
As he reached down to touch the child, it moved and a sense of
relief washed over him. He unbuckled the straps, and gingerly
picked up the baby, still in it's carrier.
"Shhh.. It's ok," he said softly.
It took him twice as long to make his way back to the front
section of the plane, because every step was slow and carefully
placed. His biggest fear right now was falling with this baby in
his arms.
He finally made it back to where the other survivors were. The
baby, a boy judging by the blue jumper it wore, had been quiet
and still the entire time. Skinner laid a worried hand upon it's
tiny chest and felt the rise and fall of even breaths. He stared,
amazed at how the innocent could sleep in the midst of so much
destruction. He set the carrier down in one of the seats and
moved back to where the woman lay.
"How are you doing?"
"OK, I think. My chest still hurts, but mostly I'm just
afraid..."her voice was a near whisper in the dim light.
"Help will be here soon. I wish I could make you more
comfortable, but I'm afraid to move you."
"No, it's ok," she said, "How many made it?"
"Four. You, another man, myself, and a baby. I need to go check
on them, just keep hanging on, ok?"
She nodded, and he moved toward the man.
"Please, get me free. I can't feel my legs, there's something
laying on them," the man begged as soon as Skinner was in his
sight.
"I can't. You have to lie still. Help is on the way, just try to
stay calm."
"WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME?" The man screamed at him.
Skinner swallowed hard before answering. He was an honest man by
nature, and yet he couldn't bring himself to tell the truth.
"I can't. I'm sorry. What's your name?"
"Joe.. Joseph Stanfield."
"Joe, I'm Walter Skinner. If I could do anything to help you, I
would. You have to believe that. But right now, there is nothing
I can do. You just have to wait-- we all do, OK?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Waiting was a cold and agonizing process. He checked on the three
other survivors, and sat to rest his aching body when he could.
Eventually a dull gray light began to brighten the dark skies,
and he knew that dawn wasn't far away.
/They can see us now, they'll find us./
He stretched his tired muscles, and stood up. He was more then a
little worried about Christy, the dark haired woman who had
survived the crash. She hadn't talked much the last time he
checked on her, and her breathing had been shallow.
She didn't look any better know, and even without any medical
training, Skinner knew a little about internal injuries. In the
half-light, the woman looked pale and drawn, he plain features
pinched with pain. He could see her eyes moving rapidly behind
closed lids, and didn't wake her. Rest and peace were probably
the only thing he could give her right now. He covered her with
another blanket to combat the chill, and let her sleep.
Joe was a different story, the long wait for help was taking its
toll and he had grown increasingly agitated each time Skinner
went to check on him.
The baby had slept most of the night, awakening only twice.
Skinner made the long trek back to the rear section of the plane
and after a brief search he'd found a blue stripped diaper bag
containing three bottles, one can of formula, and a stack of
diapers.
"Do you have kids, Walter?" Joe asked, watching as Skinner
changed the baby.
"No, but I do have a godson. He's not quite a month old."
"I've got two girls. One is eight, and the other is thirteen. I
really want to see my girls again."
"You will," Skinner replied, settling the baby into the crook of
his arm and holding a bottle for him.
"There's not anything on my legs, is there?" Joe asked suddenly.
"No," Skinner answered after a moment, not looking at the other
man's face.
Joe gave a short, bitter laugh. "I knew there wasn't. I mean, I
can see them. I just wanted to think that... that..." His words
trailed off quietly.
"Just hang in there Joe. When the doctors get a chance to look
you over, it may not be that bad."
Joe nodded his head and said nothing else. He didn't have to. He
was hanging on to a thread of hope, and feeling it unravel with
each passing hour.
The gray morning light brightened to an overcast sky, and Skinner
paced between two halves of the wrecked plane. He watched the sky
and the rocky terrain for any sign of rescue. Further up the
slope he could see a deep gouge running down the mountain. The
skid of the plane had dug a trench into the earth that stood out
in sharp contrast to the white snow. Laying off to one side of
the scarred earth was a dull glint of metal, most likely one of
the wings, he reasoned.
Eventually the cold, and the throb of his head drove him back
inside, and he sat listening for the sound of a search plane. He
was a man of action and waiting to be found was maddening, so he
put his mind to work while his body rested.
The steep hillside, and the rough slopes around him seemed to
suggest that the plane had gown down somewhere in the Rocky
Mountains, but he had no idea where, exactly.
Early morning faded into mid-day and his hope was quickly turning
to frustration as he thought about the three other survivors. The
woman, Christy, was sinking into a near comatose state and if
help didn't arrive she was going to die. Joe wasn't faring much
better. The only one completely uninjured was the little boy.
Seeing him reminded Skinner of William; Mulder and Scully's son.
His god son. He'd been overwhelmed, and honored when Scully had
come and asked him to be William's godfather. For the first time
in years he had family, and he wanted to see them right now,
more than anything.
He had plundered the galley section of the plane and found some
bottled water and a few bags of snacks, but no one felt like
eating. He gave Christy small sips of water when he could rouse
her enough to drink, but otherwise he was left to tending the
others and waiting, waiting, waiting.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By dusk he was furious. He tried to keep anyone from seeing it,
but the set of his jaw line would have been a dead give away to
anyone who knew him.
/They should have been found hours ago! Hell, they should have
been found within a few hours of the crash!/
He didn't let himself consider that a rescue party might not find
them for several more days. NO. They'd be here tonight. Or in the
morning at the latest. There was no other option.
He set to work, rigging up a makeshift curtain to hang over the
busted section of the plane. The cold coming in through the
opening was bitter, and the work gave him something to focus on.
Hours later he was exhausted, but the hole was mostly covered.
Just after midnight he went to check on Christy; her skin was
cool to his touch and he could find no pulse. He swore quietly to
himself and covered her face with the blanket. The death of
someone he barely knew had never effected him so badly, but right
now, on this mountain, life was more precious than gold and one
had just been lost.
As he settled into a seat to rest he was certain that sleep would
be elusive. Christy's fate, as well as the fate of the rest of
them, weighed heavily on his mind.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 2
-- Dark Realizations -- Fading Hopes
He was still dizzy and disoriented when he woke the next morning.
His face felt a little better, as if some of the swelling had
gone down, but a steady, throbbing headache still plagued him.
By unspoken agreement, neither he nor Joe mentioned a search
party as the morning dragged on. They both had other issues to
contend with.
Skinner was reluctant, but eventually agreed to move Joe into a
different position. He had argued with him about it, but Joe's
hard reasoning had won out.
"Look, if they don't get here pretty soon, whether or not you
moved me might be a moot point. And I'd be a little more
comfortable, and little more use if I were propped up better."
Before Skinner could raise an objection, the young man continued.
"I can help look after the baby. Besides, " he said in a lower
tone, "I can't feel my legs, Walter, I don't really think it's
going to hurt me."
Skinner gave in and against his better judgment they worked
together to reposition him. The effort of helping lift, pull and
move the paralyzed man made Skinner's head spin. He sat down
heavily in one of the empty seats.
"Why don't you try to rest for a while?" Joe asked, "I'll look
after the little guy."
Skinner nodded and closed his eyes, intending to just rest. He
was asleep in minutes.
When he awoke the pale sunlight that slanted through the windows
told him it was late. He glanced at his watch and was surprised
to see that he had slept for several hours.
Joe sat against the interior wall of the plane, his chin on
his chest, sleeping. He had spread a blanket on the floor next to
him, and the baby lay there, awake and moving, but not crying
out. Skinner went over and picked him up. The boy smiled
innocently up at him, his blue eyes shining. He went back to his
seat, pausing to pick up the diaper bag on his way. As he opened
it to get a diaper he saw something that filled him with a cold
sense of fear. One last bottle.
He'd have to open the can of formula soon. The baby would need
it, but how long would one can last?
He hadn't paid much attention to his own hunger, being
preoccupied with looking after the other survivors, but he was
beginning to feel the effects. He was certain that it was partly
responsible for his fatigue. He thought back. The last meal he
had was dinner, two days ago, and his stomach growled in sudden
response. He fed the infant, and then ate a small bag of pretzels
he'd found in the galley.
/They have to come soon. Someone has to find us. I'm *NOT* going
to watch anyone starve to death./
His own thoughts gave him a sense of foreboding.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 4
-- Unpleasant Tasks -- Visitors In The Night
It had taken a lot out of him, but Skinner had finally managed to
drag the last body outside the plane. It was something he had
considered doing for a while, but the act had a sense of finality
that he hadn't wanted to face. The coppery smell of blood, so
vague yet familiar when he'd first entered the wreck, had become
stronger now. The interior of the plane, their only shelter, was
beginning to smell like a slaughter house.
He had waited until early afternoon, then while Joe and the baby
slept he had started to work. The last one he hauled out was
Christy.
He stood silently over her, wishing he knew something to say,
some way to tell her that this mountainside would not be her
final resting place. Instead, he simply made a promise to himself
that he'd one day see her buried in a proper cemetery.
Back inside, he picked up three empty water bottles. He'd used
the last of the drinking water to dilute the one can of formula
for the infant, and now he carried them outside and squat down.
With no gloves it was a numbing process to pack them full of
snow, but they all needed water to survive. After he filled them,
he tucked them inside his coat, half grateful for the cool
sensation against his bruised ribs.
He went back inside and sat down in his usual seat, keeping his
coat zipped up to allow his body heat to melt the snow.
In the late afternoon light he could see the fine sheen of sweat
that coated Joe's face, and it worried him. He had noticed it
this morning as they sat on the floor, the infant between them,
sharing a bag of chips from their dwindling supply of food.
"You don't look so good, Joe," he'd said casually.
"You don't look so good either, Walter," Joe had answered with a
wry smile that vaguely reminded Skinner of Mulder.
"You feeling ok?"
"Just tired," Joe had answered.
Skinner let it go, and they finished the rest of their 'meal' in
silence. Now as the light faded into dusk, he knew that Joe was
sick. The senselessness of it all boiled up inside of him.
/Christy would have made it if help had arrived. That little baby
wouldn't be living on thinned down formula, if help had arrived.
Joe would../
He stopped his mental tirade; it served no purpose. If wishes
were fishes...
He drew a blanket up over his body and closed his eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Walter?"
The voice reached through his peaceful sleep and pulled him
gently to the surface.
"Walter?"
It was louder now, filled with a sense of urgency.
"WALTER?"
"What?" he mumbled, blinking his eyes open.
"There's something outside, I hear it," Joe whispered.
Skinner held his breath and listened. A faint shuffling noise
came from just outside, near the opening of the wreckage.
He jerked the blanket away from his legs, and sat up.
The soft noises continued, and he stood up quickly from his seat.
His head swam for a moment, but he took a couple of faltering
steps anyway.
"Whose there?" he called loudly, praying for an answer.
None came.
He edged closer to the open end of the plane, and called louder.
"Whose there?"
A deep growl came from the other side of the curtain, and he took
a quick step back.
/Oh fuck./
It wasn't the growl of a domesticated dog. It was the growl of a
hungry animal, protecting a food source. A warning from a
predator.
Other sounds came to him now, soft snarls, panting, and wet
ripping sounds the he somehow knew was flesh being torn away from
bone.
He slowly backed away from the curtain, keeping his eyes glued to
it for any sign of movement.
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"Nothing," Skinner lied quickly, sitting down near Joe, but
keeping his eyes on the curtain. The baby stirred, and whimpered
softly in its sleep. Skinner picked him up and shushed him,
rocking him gently, his eyes still watching the doorway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 5
-- Red and white -- Stronghold
As soon as it was light, he went outside the plane. The snow was
stained with blood from the bodies he'd dragged outside just
yesterday. All of them had been chewed, or gnawed on to some
degree, and closer look at the ground showed several sets of paw
prints. He leaned down, looking at one print in the snow. He
spread his hand out next to it, and was chilled to see that the
print was almost as big as his palm.
He set to work then, dragging each of the bodies further from the
plane. If the late night visitors came back, maybe they'd be
content with the dead, but he somehow had his doubts. Not when a
'warm meal' was just a few feet away. Either way, he wasn't
taking any chances.
He paused to catch his breath, and he considered what he wanted
to do next. His eyes scanned the debris around the plane, and
found nothing that suited his needs. He glanced back up the
slope, and saw the glinting metal from the wing.
/Forget it. You'll never be able to move it./
But it was worth a look.
He hiked up, finding it much easier to walk in the snow than in
the slick rut left by the plane's skid. It turned out to be worth
the effort. The glinting piece of metal in the snowbank was only
a section of the planes wing.
He got down on his knees, heedless of the cold and the damp that
soaked through his pant legs, and dusted the snow away from the
wing, tracing its outline. It was at least twelve feet by
fourteen feet.
/It's still big. Probably too big to move, but.../
He grunted, trying to lift one end; it didn't budge.
He looked around at the nearby tree line and grinned, "Give me a
long enough lever, and I shall move the world."
After a lot of searching, he found what he wanted. A
long branch, as thick as his arm, lay on the ground. It looked
strong enough, and he hefted it up onto his shoulder.
He stuck one end of the branch under the section of the wing, and
lifted up on the other end. The heavy slab of metal slide further
down the mountain and Skinner followed it, repositioning the
lever and moving on.
Once he made it down the slope itself, it became a lot harder to
move. The incline had helped a lot, that and simple gravity. Now
the he had it on flat ground, he strained to position the piece
where he wanted it.
/Now for the hard part./
He used the lever to raise one long side of the wing, until he
could push it forward with his hands. His head began to buzz from
the exertion, but he wouldn't stop. He inched the piece further
upright, till at last it was standing on its side, and gave it a
hard shove. It smacked against the open end of the wreckage with
a loud thump that seemed to echo down the mountain. But the final
result was worth it.
The exposed end of the plane was now capped by the section of
wing, leaving an entrance that was less than four feet wide.
/Not a perfect fit, but Bob Villa I ain't/
All in all, Skinner was proud of his mornings work, but his day
was far from over. Although exhausted already, he had other
projects in mind.
He lifted the curtain from the 'doorway' of the plane, and went
inside. There he spent the next two hours clearing away the
windows. Although small, they were the only light source for the
interior of the craft.
In all the commotion, he awakened the baby and sat down to feed
it. He held up the bottle in the dim light coming through the
windows, and his heart wrenched at the sight of it. The mixture
of formula and water was so thin that you could see through it.
But it was all he had.
The baby drained the bottle quickly and Skinner just sat holding
him for a while before he finally began to tire, and doze off. He
laid the sleeping infant in his carrier seat, and went to check
on Joe.
Joe's face and shirt were soaked with sweat, and his forehead
felt hot to the touch. Not just warm, but actually hot.
/Jesus, his brain is cooking./
Skinner found someone's carry-on bag and pawed through its
contents. Inside was a plain cotton tee shirt that would work for
a compress. He took it outside and rubbed in handfuls of snow
until the garment was soaked.
Back inside he folded it and placed it over Joe's forehead. The
younger man flinched slightly as the cool cloth touched his
forehead, but he neither spoke, nor opened his eyes.
He sat for a while, watching the other man as he mumbled, and
stirred restlessly in his sleep. In his heart he already knew
that Joe wasn't going to make it. He had found a small bottle of
aspirin in the galley, but he couldn't get Joe to swallow them.
With no way to break the fever, and no help... Skinner actually
chuckled humorlessly at the thought of help. At this point, any
type of help had become more elusive than the holy grail.
/Abandon all hope, ye who enter here./
That would just leave him and the baby. His eyes moved over to
the resting child, and a surge of bitterness swept up his soul.
He, himself, was barely surviving on water, and a handful of
chips, or peanuts, each day. How long would that child last with
no nourishment? The formula was so thinned down now, it was
pathetic. In another couple of days, it would be nothing but
water.
/Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow help will come./
But he felt no hope.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 7
-- Sounds of sorrow -- Haunted thoughts
The baby was crying. It pulled him from the refuge of sleep and
thrust him back into the nightmare that had become his reality.
He moved slowly in the darkness, and found the carrier-seat and
it's tiny, wailing occupant. He lifted him up gently, and cradled
him in the crook of his arm. He held up the bottle of water, and
after just a taste the infant spit it out and began crying again.
"I know," Skinner sighed, "I know buddy, but it's all I've got.
I'm sorry."
He sat near Joe and rocked the baby, trying to soothe and calm
him.
"You should do him a favor," Joe croaked in the darkness. "You
should just smother him now."
It was the first words he'd spoken in almost two days and Skinner
was enraged by them. Even though he knew it was just the fever,
hunger, and pain talking, he hated him for even saying it.
"Fuck you, Joe."
"I'm already fucked. GOD fucked me when I bought this plane
ticket."
Joe's voice trailed off into something that might have been a
laugh, but ended up a wet, hacking cough. You could hear the
rattle of his breathing from the other side of the plane.
Skinner kept walking until, after a long while, the baby drifted
off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.
He sat down, holding the sleeping child in his arms and wept
silently.
Walter Skinner was not a man to cry. Ever. But the rage,
frustration, and despair of the past week washed over him in an
agonizing wave and the tears could not be contained. None of it
was self pity. His tears came for the lives lost, and the hope
that was lost for the two other survivors. He didn't cry for his
own possible end, but for the baby that was starving in his arms,
and for the man who was dying a few feet away.
/Maybe Joe is right. Maybe God did screw us all. Maybe it's fate,
and maybe none of it even fucking matters anymore. This is all
wrong. No one should ever have to die like this. Especially not a
child./
Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore, he sat holding the
little boy and watched as the dawn broke over another day in
hell.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 8
-- Suffer the innocent -- Spiraling down
Joe was dead. Skinner had watched him die slowly, drowning in the
fluid that had filled his lungs. The younger man hadn't spoken
since last night, and Skinner felt a deep sense of regret over
what had been said between them.
The baby cried almost constantly now, and every tiny wail was a
stab of guilt into Skinner's soul. He felt somehow that he was
responsible. The part of his mind that held on to rationality
argued that it wasn't his fault, but his heart, which had always
assumed too many burdens didn't agree.
There should be something he could do. He despised the feeling of
uselessness he had. He paced for hours holding the child in his
arms, his ears now accustomed to the constant crying. His heart
would never get used to it though. He tried not to notice how the
cries had become thinner, weaker. He tried not to notice how the
baby's ribs showed now, when he changed his diaper.
He slept when the baby slept, keeping him on his lap, or cradled
against his chest. A sense of desperation made him keep the
little boy close at all times.
/If he has to die, then he's not going to die alone./
By nightfall, the crying had ceased.
The boy lay on Skinners lap, his small chest rising and falling
in a shallow rhythm, his body listless, his eyes dull.
Skinner reached out and stroked his fingertips across the infants
forehead, his strong face set in a mask of sadness. It had welled
up inside him as the cries had tapered off. He knew what it
meant. The baby no longer had the strength to cry.
Fatigue from both physical and emotional strain took him away. He
closed his eyes and hoped to dream.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day 9
-- A bitter end -- A little too late
He startled awake, confused by the dim gray light that could be
either morning or afternoon, and by the sense that something was
very wrong. He lifted the baby up against his shoulder, and his
ears picked up the faint shuffling sound of something moving
outside.
/The Wolves. The Goddamn wolves are back./
He stood up quietly, and eased over to one of the windows,
peering outside. A bright flash of color moved across his line of
sight and he jerked back out of reflex.
His dazed mind grasped onto something... something he couldn't
comprehend at first.
"Hello?" a voice shouted from miles away.
"Here," he croaked, his throat seeming too small for the words to
escape. He tried again. "In here!"
He looked down at the sleeping baby and smiled.
"It's ok now. We're all right. They found us," he said to the
child, tears of relief sliding down his cheeks.
He turned to watch in amazement as the rescuers came in. The
bright orange of their jump suits were the most wonderful thing
he'd ever seen in his life.
The four people made their way to him quickly, and one of them, a
woman, reached to take the child from his arms. He had to force
himself to let go. Two of the others swarmed around him, asking
him questions, looking him over. He answered them, but kept
looking at the other two with the child.
He was being led outside, against his objections, to a group of
waiting snowmobiles. He was handed a cup of coffee, and stared at
it without comprehension at first.
A minute later the other two rescuers came out of the plane; the
woman carried the baby, wrapped completely in a blanket, his face
covered.
Skinner jumped to his feet and moved to take the child.
"I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing we can do for him."
He stared at the small bundle that in no way resembled another
life lost, and shook his head.
/No. No. No./
A steady whump-whump-whump began to fill the air as a helicopter
came in low over the site, but he didn't notice it. He allowed
himself to be numbly lead away, to be loading on the chopper, and
to be buckled into the seat.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
-- Epilogue --
Everything for the next few days was a blur of images and
sensations. He had brief flashes of the hospital, of tubes and
wires, and tests. Flashes of faces, all strangers, all
questioning. He answered what he could, not matter how painful,
but kept those emotions locked deep within himself. He never
showed anything except for his A.D. mask. It was, after all, who
he was.
A week later he went back to D.C., forcing himself to board the
airplane in Denver. He gripped the armrest of his seat with
white-knuckle intensity the entire flight.
His biggest surprise waited for him at Dulles airport, where he
was met by Mulder.
"Thought you might need a lift," Mulder said as a greeting.
"I could get a cab," Skinner replied tiredly.
"Yeah, but you would have went home, and that would have ruined
Scully's plans. She has a 'welcome home' dinner cooking."
"Mulder, I'm really not up to this," Skinner protested.
"Fine, you can tell her that when we get there," Mulder shrugged,
reaching out and taking Skinner's bag quickly. He shouldered it,
and waited; an expectant look on his face.
Skinner gave in, he knew it was a losing battle.
On the freeway, Mulder glanced at his reluctant passenger.
"You don't have to worry about questions," he said suddenly, "We
already know everything."
"I doubt that," Skinner said.
"Well, we know everything you told the investigators. Anymore
than that, we probably don't want to know."
Skinner turned his attention to the traffic around them. He
didn't want to have this conversation.
Scully opened the door for them before they even reached it and
the good smells of cooking food wafted into the hallway. Skinner
was surprised when she stood on her tiptoes to hug him, and
whisper 'welcome home' in his ear. Inside the apartment, Scully
took his coat and Skinner sat down on the couch, silent and
obviously uncomfortable.
Mulder brushed past the awkward scene and disappeared, returning
a minute later with William. The sight of the baby gave Skinner a
rush of dread and pain.
"See," Mulder said, speaking to his son, "I told you he'd be
here."
Mulder held the child out, but Skinner made no move to take him;
his chest crushed with the weight of too many harsh memories.
Mulder took a step closer, and gave him a hard stare. Skinner
reached out took the baby, settling him easily in the crook of
his arm. He looked down and couldn't help smiling.
"Hey, little guy, did you miss your uncle Walt? I really missed
you." he said, his voice a ragged. His eyes burned with tears as
he watched the tiny smiling face, and he understood why Mulder
had been so insistent.
~fin