"Dry Season" by Cynthia J

Dry Season by Cynthia J

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

DISCLAIMERS

* "The X-Files" and its characters are the copyrighted property of Chris Carter et al. I suppose that by appropriating and meddling with his work I've sort of pitched a comfy chaise lounge on his front lawn and decked myself out to catch a little sun. Well, that and I've invited you all over for a bit of a barbeque. I didn't think he'd mind. Mustard and relish on mine, if you please, Chris.

* I'd like to dedicate this story to "X-Files" writer Darin Morgan and his wonderfully skewed view of the world of Scully and Mulder. You have a deliciously bent and inspiring sense of humor. Thanks for keeping the show fresh, Darin.

* The time line of this story harkens back to the halcyon days of "The X-Files" when there were more characters in the script than in the ground. Please keep in mind that this story is trite and designed purely as a bit of fun. So if you don't laugh, you've clearly misread the instructions, and I will not be liable for any injury you might have suffered as a result. Remember, there is only one essential form of headgear: open-mindedness. Wear it often. More stories on the way! Enjoy!

Dry Season by Cynthia J

Mulder sprinted down the street, lungs burning. Almost obscured by the haze, the moon smirked after him. Drops of sweat leapt from his brow and nose and were lost in a blur behind him. As countless orange street lights loomed over him, he envisioned the city simmering under enormous heat lamps. He wiped his brow as best he could and ran faster. The pavement still clutched the day's cruel sun, toasting his sore feet. Headlights winked to life behind him, splashing his shadow out in front of him. They had found him again.

Hearing the engine roar as the car charged him, Mulder quickly jumped aside, rolling for cover behind a parked car. The unmarked, black sedan streaked past. In seconds, it screeched to a halt, and large men in black suits and sunglasses emerged. He knew he was on to something very big. Fishing his phone from his jacket, Mulder dashed into an adjacent parking lot. The hot, dry air pulled at his skin. He frantically punched in Scully's phone number as gunshots flared behind him. Somewhere her cellular phone tweeted at itself, unanswered.

He cursed and ducked behind an orange Pinto. As he dialed her home number, bullets smashed through the little car's rear porthole windows, raining tinted glass into his hair. Scully's phone rang as gunshots peppered Mulder's hiding place. Tires blown, the car suddenly sagged away from him. Stooped over, he ran for better cover, still listening for Scully's voice.

He smirked and crouched behind a black BMW. Its alarm wailed as bullets burst its windows. The shots stopped. In an assortment of accents, the gunmen argued about whether or not to flee. Mulder relaxed a little and hunched over his phone to hear it over the pulsing alarm. Her answering machine must be unplugged, he thought. They may have already gotten to her. Gunfire erupted, hammering the car. The alarm drooped away pathetically.

Mulder scrambled to his feet and charged away. A volley of bullets ruptured the gas tank, and a plume of fire ripped through the back of the car. The concussion nearly knocked him down. Running his fastest despite aches and the heat, he zigzagged down a series of alleys until he recalled where he had parked his car. He hopped in and drove off in a panic, fire engines crying behind him. The air-conditioner's cold blast soothed him little. Scully never answered her phone.

Hair sweat-soaked, trousers torn, Mulder ignored the peculiar looks from Scully's neighbors and hammered on the door, yelling her name. After a few seconds, scuffling sounds seeped around the frame. Mulder drew his gun and frantically tried to kick in the door, bruising his foot. Someone cursed and fumbled with the lock. He backed away and leveled his pistol.

Scully pulled the door open and peeked out, her hair wild. Seeing the gun, she started, ready to slam the door, but relaxed when she recognized Mulder under the mask of mania and sweat. Relieved, he holstered his gun.

"Mulder!" she said. "What the hell?!" With panic safely out of the way, anger was clearly next in line, boiling to her eyes. She glanced down and fastidiously checked the door for damage. Mulder groaned, hand on his damp head. He had nearly died behind a Pinto, and she was worried about getting her security deposit back. "I'm sorry, Mulder. You look terrible!"

She opened the door fully, but blocked the threshold: one hand on the knob, the other on the jamb. A thin paisley robe draped around her body but shared few secrets. She seemed taller to him for some reason. Cool air whispered past her and chilled his sweat, reminding him how bitterly hot he was.

He frowned when he was certain she had no intention of letting him in. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Scully." Although the complete truth, the words sounded hollow, contrived. Her sharp blue eyes flitted about uncertainly. The deep flush of her face was unusual for someone in an air-conditioned room. Tendrils of perfume randomly--tantalizingly--touched his nose. He whisked away tempting thoughts. "I'm onto something big, Scully."

She set her jaw, preparing to tell him what he did not want to hear. "It's always something big, Mulder," she said, frowning. "I'd love to help you chase some conspiracy tonight, but it's Friday. I've been wrung so tightly that I have to relax a little this weekend or I'll snap." Her eyes cemented her words. "The Truth can wait until Monday, Mulder."

Hot and dejected, Mulder broke her gaze. Eyes on the floor, he watched her feet shuffle nervously. His brow furrowed. She wore black spiked heels. To further confuse things, something like a tail dangled past the hem of her robe and brushed her ankle. Before he could say anything, a voice bellowed from the bedroom, "I have you now, Catwoman!" From around the corner swooped a man in nothing but a Batman mask and cape.

Scully laid a hand over her eyes and turned crimson. Having noticed Scully was not alone, the masked man skidded to a halt behind her, his shoulders slumping a little. "Oh. Hi, Mulder," he said, matter-of-fact. Mulder coughed uncontrollably when he recognized Agent Pendrell's voice.

A nervous, wordless moment passed--followed by another. Pendrell smiled weakly and tugged his cape over his drooping erection. Scully stared at Mulder, pleading for privacy. He stopped coughing.

"Well, I...," Mulder said at last, sliding his hand over his head. "I think I'll follow some leads and get back to you, Scully." Although still visibly worried about him, she relaxed considerably, relieved to be off the hook. Uncertain whether to laugh or yell, he remained silent, turned and stalked away.

"Mulder, you've got to let go before it kills you," she called after him. "Get out of this heat." She waited a moment then shut the door. From down the hallway, Mulder heard their laughter erupt and quickly trail off, headed inevitably for the bedroom. Hot, jealous and already used twice for target practice, he hoped the night was due for improvement. Grumbling all the way, he drove home. Pendrell?

Silent and still, the street in front of his building showed no signs of unmarked black sedans or thugs in sunglasses. Relieved, he stepped out of his car and walked across the street, staring hopefully at the masking tape X backlit in his window.

Prepared to duck gunfire, he edged into his apartment and sighed when he found it undisturbed. After a long, cold shower, he changed into a black t-shirt and jeans. He crouched over his discarded suit and rummaged through his rumpled jacket, recovering the disk he had stolen from the lab. Although a bit scuffed, the plastic case seemed relatively undamaged; he only hoped the data was still intact. Confident his favorite nerds could break the encryption, he slipped the disk into his shirt's lone breast pocket.

Ever vigilant, Mulder unholstered his gun and tucked it into the front of his jeans, tugging his shirt over the grip. He would be ready next time. He slid his badge into his back pocket. Kicking the dirty clothes aside, he wiped new sweat from his brow. His apartment seethed like an oven.

Jealous, he crouched beside his aquarium and watched his fish contentedly wriggle about. As he turned away, he spied a white, plastic tube bobbing near the back of the tank. He reached into the water, finding it surprisingly warm, and pulled out the small cylinder. With a little twisting, the tube separated into two parts, sending a rolled note tumbling to the floor. He snatched up the paper and unrolled it. Crimped, slanting print read:

Even the fish are sweating tonight. Sorry, Agent Mulder.

I can't help you. I'm meeting a very special woman

with an incredible body and the locations of ten

Middle Eastern chemical weapons labs.

It's going to be a rough night.

I'm sorry to hear your redheaded

friend is off playing dress-up with the lab

mouse. I always pictured you as the Batman type.

Get out of this heat, Agent Mulder. Before it kills you.

Frustrated, Mulder crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. Leaning over his desk, he clicked off the lamp and picked at the masking tape on the window. The heat was such that the strips left sticky strings of adhesive on the glass. Muttering, he shook the wadded tape from his fingers.

He knew the Lone Gunmen could help him. What else do they have to do on a Friday night? He nabbed his keys as he headed out the door. Utterly abandoned, the street stretched out before him quietly and, he hoped, harmlessly. While walking down the front steps, he heard something crunch underfoot. Sunglasses. He ran for his car and zoomed off.

Mulder screeched to a stop and bolted from the car, his head whipping about nervously. He huddled in the squalid, little warehouse's only lit doorway. A security camera stared down at him, following his every move. He knocked several times, but there was no answer.

Two unmarked, black cars rolled up slowly across the street. Orange streetlight scintillated on several pairs of sunglasses inside each car. Mulder pounded on the door.

The intercom beside him crackled. "Go away!"

"Let me in, Langly. It's Mulder."

The speaker popped. "Jeez, you have lousy timing, Mulder. A cometary event in our lives, and you come pounding on the door."

"What do you mean?" Mulder felt the stares of the men across the street. "Look, just let me in!"

"Why are you running around out in this heat anyway, Mulder?"

"I have some data I want you guys to look at for me," he said, holding back the urge to yell despite the doom waiting for him across the street. "Guys, open the door."

"What?!" Frohike's gremlin voice rumbled out of the speaker. "Forget it! We cruised the Star Trek convention and picked up three hot Klingon babes. Even we're getting laid tonight, Mulder!"

The speaker sizzled with snorting laughter and what sounded like women growling, and then the intercom went dead. Mulder kicked the door, frowned and peeked over his shoulder at the men in the unmarked cars. Unwilling to press his luck any further, he jumped into his own car and sped away, anxiously checking the mirrors. He did not seem to be followed. For some reason, the thugs were not the car-chase type.

Mulder simmered in frustration. No one was bothering to help him, and one of the biggest conspiracies ever was ready to break. Enraged, he pounded the dashboard. The air-conditioner spluttered and died away to a useless whine. With a defeated sigh, he turned it off.

His options dwindling, Mulder wove his way toward Skinner's apartment. In keeping with the rest of the night, the assistant director had not answered his phone. Bothering the man at home was risky, but Mulder was willing to take a punch if it meant someone would listen to his story. He just hoped it would not come to that.

He parked in the alley behind the building and crawled into the basement parking garage. When an irritable-looking security guard stopped him, Mulder flashed his badge. The man was too hot and tired to be impressed but allowed Mulder to pass all the same. Cautiously, he made his way up a dim stairwell and edged his way to the assistant director's apartment.

Mulder loitered for a few moments, took a deep breath and knocked loudly. A gruff voice boiled out of the silence, and colorful language charged toward him like a schizophrenic parade. He backed away, wondering if he should draw his gun.

Skinner nearly tore the door from its hinges. "Look, if this is about the noise...!" he began, absolutely livid. His voice had all the resonance of an earthquake. "Agent Mulder. I should have known." Shirtless, Skinner seemed gargantuan. He finished pulling on his trousers and winced when he caught himself in his zipper. His eyes blazed. "The White House better be on fire."

Conserving words, Mulder wheezed a truncated tale of conspiracy. He mentioned the lab disk and nodded toward his pocket, noticing for the first time a set of handcuffs dangling from Skinner's wrist.

The assistant director tightened his grip, his cuffs jingling. "I'm a little busy right now, Agent Mulder," he said, his voice like steam, "but we'll discuss this Monday." His tone conveyed an image of a conversation performed in full-contact mime. Skinner released him and, with one last I-should-have-killed-you-a-long-time-ago look, slammed the door.

Mulder smoothed his shirt and glanced down the hall. An all-too-familiar, mottled face in sunglasses peeked around the corner and quickly withdrew. In less than a minute, he was in his car again, terrifying alley cats.

Having scrounged little help from his allies, he decided to confront one of his enemies. He recalled a forgettable brownstone on a forgettable street and wove manically through the city. The air in his car grew bitter and hot. He got out as soon as he could.

Featureless except for some cigarette butts littering the front steps, the small building slouched before him. He crouched and picked up one of the discards. Morley was printed near the filter. He threw it down and stomped inside the foyer.

He hammered on the only numberless door. When he heard someone approaching, he drew his gun. The Cigarette Smoking Man nonchalantly opened the door. He wore a red robe with velvet lapels. He removed a ubiquitous cigarette from his mouth and smiled, breathing wisps of smoke in Mulder's face.

"Hello, Agent Mulder," he said, smirking. "What an unexpected surprise." His signature smugness poured from him like the smoke. He might as well have said Insect Mulder. "A bit hot for cloak-and-dagger, don't you think? Even I take weekends off."

Warm laughter bubbled behind him. Mulder's face blanched, his mouth agape. Three women?! A blonde, brunette and redhead, each in various states of undress, sauntered up behind the Cigarette Smoking Man and laid hands on him. Wordlessly, he stood there, smirking and taking a drag off his signature cigarette. He looked remarkably like Hugh Hefner.

Completely at a loss, Mulder tucked away his gun. He turned and, at wit's end, plodded toward the foyer. "I suggest you take up smoking, Agent Mulder." The door clicked shut, and lewd laughter echoed down the hall.

Finding his car perched on cinder blocks, its tires decidedly absent, Mulder shook his head and wandered down the sidewalk. He wished the lightning would strike and get it over with.

As though on cue, a pair of black sedans squealed around the corner in front of him. In a blur, eight dark-suited men stood around him, guns drawn. Hot and tired, Mulder pulled his gun and prepared to make a pathetic stand.

Around the corner careened a long, red minivan, steam billowing from under its hood. It pulled over nearby, and eight college cheerleaders emerged, bobbing up and down in frustration, their red and white miniskirts swaying. One of their number kicked a tire and looked over at the standoff. She smiled infectiously.

Almost in unison, the men in black stowed their guns and trotted over to help, leaving Mulder frazzled and pointing his gun impotently at the night. One of the men puttered around the van and opened its hood, waving his hand as steam coughed out in a thick cloud. The other suits mingled with the cheerleaders, laughing and carrying on like intimate friends. A few of the girls coaxed off the sunglasses and tried them on. One of the thugs shook a pair of pompoms. Mulder felt reality crawling away from him.

Proclaiming the minivan dead, the lead suit closed it up and joined the huddle. After a very brief discussion, the entire assembly meandered toward the unmarked sedans. Impromptu cheers echoed down the street. With a lot of wriggling and laughter, they managed to squeeze themselves inside, eight to a car. The girls had had to surrender their pompoms, which lay in a clump at Mulder's feet, but they were going to miss the game anyway.

Seconds later, the cars zoomed down the street, horns happily honking. Mulder finally moved, lowering and tucking away his gun. He let himself feel completely pathetic for a few minutes. He did not like the sum of his life at the moment. A hot night, aching feet and a pile of pompoms.

He felt he had been duped by one conspiracy while an even bigger one had been hatched: everyone in the world was getting laid except him. Surrendering to everyone's advice at last, he resolved to pack up his paranoia for the night and get out of the heat.

As the blocks rolled by, his spirits rose. Scully had been right. Even the Truth deserved a weekend. As he wandered past the front window of a small tavern, Mulder stopped, having caught the eye of a leggy brunette in a black dress seated at the bar. His disastrous night suddenly dropped away from him. Here sat the reward for all of his effort and suffering.

He checked his reflection and sauntered into the bar. The heat had driven away all but a handful of patrons who sipped quietly at their drinks. Tingling, Mulder sat next to the brunette. He grinned, lost for a moment in her perfume. He ordered a drink for himself and a refill for her.

The bartender paused for a moment, served the drinks and turned away, smirking to himself. The brunette's scarlet lips tipped mischievously in a thankful smile, and her brown eyes very plainly sized Mulder up. He had completely surrendered the threads of paranoia he had clutched so tightly and began to relax. The woman clearly wanted him. The conspiracy would break.

Having sipped his drink, he put his arm around her. "What's your name, beautiful?" he whispered.

She smiled, laying a large, hairy hand on his. "Steve."

-Cynthia J, exclusively for this site