In the Jungle

By Brandon D. Ray
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

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