Gabriel
Chapter Five


Disclaimer, etc. in Headers


The Silver Moon
Denver, Colorado
September 17, 2001
3:35 a.m.


He cracked open the door and scanned the hall
before slipping out.  Behind every door he
passed, he could hear muffled moans and
movement; he almost grinned at the distinct
sound of Jesse's voice that drifted through the
sounds of sex. *Almost* grinned - right now, he
had more pressing matters to attend to.

Pressing his ear to the last door, he waited for
a moment or two, listening to see if Eliza had
made it back upstairs.  He heard nothing, not
even the rustle of clothing, so he gently turned
the knob and stole inside, using both hands to
softly close it behind him.  Of course, just
minutes ago she'd still been downstairs in
negotiations.  He figured he had five minutes at
the most before she'd return to her quarters;
all the girls with the exception of the one
remaining downstairs were now engaged with
customers.  Eliza would have a few minutes to
spare, so he had to move quickly.

The room was furnished in the same garish tones
as the parlor below, and compared to the other
bedrooms, this one was not made for business.  A
huge bed graced the far wall, but it was
immaculate - looked like it hadn't been slept
in.  Did she have nothing but money on her mind? 
Shrugging off the obvious conclusion, he turned
and spied a desk on the opposite wall, the
single lamp beside it illuminating the papers
strewn on its surface.

Good place to begin, he thought, rapidly
scanning them with shaking fingers.

He wasn't keen on getting caught, and the slight
fear made him fumble a bit.  With any luck, he'd
be out of there before Eliza came up and
screamed bloody murder.  By tomorrow morning,
the crew would be gone, and Gabriel with them. 
Or not - maybe he'd find what he was looking for
in this place.  In either case, he wasn't
worried.  He was anxious; anticipating the end
of a long, hard journey.

But there was nothing; not even a sort of
bookkeeping system.  Most of the pages were full
of scribbles and that puzzled him - almost like
they'd been arranged as ornaments, without worry
as to significance.  Several logbooks sat on the
blotter, but they were filled with the same
sloppy marks.  With a snort of frustration, he
eyed the cigar box on the corner of the desk,
its lid propped open with the overflow of money. 
This made no sense; Eliza, looking thoroughly in
character as a seller of other women's flesh. 
Gobbling up the money downstairs with greedy
fingers and satisfied smiles, she would not be
so lax with it once in hand.

Even the God damned door hadn't been locked.

The realization sent a new spurt of fright
through him and he backed away, sensing that all
was not what it seemed.  But he didn't get far -
just beyond the door, he heard Eliza's bark at
one of the girls.  Catching sight of the closet
nestled in the corner, he ducked in just as the
hall door opened.

With a crack of the door, he watched her move
about the room.  A broad sigh and a jerky roll
of her neck on her shoulders accompanied her
toss of the most recent transaction's net into
the cigar box.

Then she stood still and her voice came to him,
though she didn't turn around.  "I know you're
there," she said, eerily calm.  "You may as well
come out, Agent Mulder."

Agent Mulder?  What was this shit?  The only way
she knew him was as the Minister of Justice -
what the hell was she trying to pull?  Whatever
it was, it ratcheted up his uneasiness to
monumental proportions and he flung open the
door, reaching for his knife.  So what if she
knew who he was and that he was here... he
wanted answers and he wanted them now.  She
could set the hounds of hell after him when all
was said and done - he'd be long gone.

Wrapping an arm about Eliza's waist, he held the
knife to her throat.  "Where is she?"  It was
all he needed to ask, and he knew it.  This
woman had made it out alive and was doing very
well for herself; the mystery that surrounded
her enveloped a lot more than this whore house.

"Who, Agent Mulder?"  It was an innocent
question and she didn't move a hair when he
pressed the knife closer into her skin.

"You know damn well who I'm talking about," he
hissed.  "Now tell me what the hell you're doing
here and if you have her."  His arm tightened
and he added, "Don't underestimate me, you
bitch.  You know I would love nothing better
than to just slit your fucking throat right
here.  Tell me, God damn it!"  Bloodlust began
to consume him; with the way she was jerking him
around, he knew his temper wouldn't hold for
long.

"Tell you what, Agent Mulder?"

Her body began to move - it almost seemed to
melt in his hold.  Speechless, he realized too
late who - or what - he was dealing with, as he
tried to step away.

But the creature whirled on him in an instant,
his huge hand coming up to encircle Gabriel's
neck.  The plastic curves of Eliza's face
transformed into hard, chiseled cheeks and
almost lifeless eyes.  Its face came closer and
the low menace of its voice sent a familiar
shiver up Gabriel's spine as he began to gasp
for breath.

"We've done this before, haven't we, Agent
Mulder?"

That the bounty hunter still wore the ridiculous
evening gown shot through Gabriel's mind, but
laughter wasn't an option.  His right hand came
up to grasp at the arm that pinned him, but its
feeble strength was no match for the alien's
power.

The bounty hunter launched Gabriel across the
room with a seemingly effortless flick of his
wrist.  As his head hit the opposite wall next
to the door, he saw stars, but he didn't lose
his grip on the knife.  Little good it would do
him, though - unless he could sink it into the
alien's one vulnerable spot, the back of its
neck.

It moved forward slowly, still speaking. 
"Except this time it's not your sister you seek,
is it?"  The creature bent over and grabbed him
by his jacket before murmuring, "The answer is
the same, Agent Mulder... she's alive."

Gabriel knew in that moment that the alien knew
where she was; he could see it in the unholy
smirk, feel it in the burn of its eyes.  "Where
is she?" he croaked one last time.

The bounty hunter picked him up with one hand
and had his other hand poised to strike. 
"You'll see her soon enough, Agent Mulder.  I've
been waiting for you."

Waiting for him?  That was his last thought
before the hand hit his face, knocking him into
unconsciousness.


Undisclosed location
The Smoky Mountains
May 15, 2001
3:16 p.m.


"I'm going after her."

Mulder's statement brooked no argument.  He
didn't expect any from his friends, really. 
They knew he'd follow her to the ends of the
earth; literally, he'd done that already years
ago.  In his mind, this was no different.  More
difficult, yes, what with no shadow informant to
give him a head start.

He wasn't fully healed and he doubted he ever
would be, given the muscle and nerve damage he'd
suffered from the bullet wound and Frohike's
subsequent removal of it.  However, he could
still use his right arm - he just had to
concentrate.  As he stood up from the table, his
left hand wrapped around his right wrist,
holding it steady.  Though the guys knew of his
new disability, he was loathe to show any
weakness before them.  He knew they'd try to
talk him out of it, or at the least, delay his
departure.

And it came almost instantly, as Frohike raised
disbelieving eyes to Mulder's stern face.  "No
way."

"Who's gonna stop me?  You?"  The itch to pursue
her was about to eat him alive, the thousand
little fingers moving on his skin shoving him
along mercilessly.

Frohike stood, palms on the table.  "Yeah," he
drawled, his confidence puffing out his chest. 
"Look at you, Mulder.  You couldn't chase after
a snail on a hot day."

Mulder felt his face get hot and he crossed over
to the bank of computers where Byers and Langly
sat in frightened silence.  Ignoring Frohike's
slam, he bent to Langly.  "Just give me a place
to start."

The blond fidgeted for a moment, but kept his
eyes on the screen as he replied, "Umm... I
really don't have anything for you, Mulder." 
Jerking his head up, he added quickly, "Not yet,
anyway."

"And just how the hell are you supposed to move
around out there, Mulder?"  Frohike faced
him, his voice harsh with the attempt at reason. 
"You set one foot out of this place and the
territorial police will be all over you like
stink on shit."

Feeling himself falter, he grabbed the edge of
Langly's chair and spun to face Frohike.  "I'll
think of something."

Frohike crossed his arms and gave Mulder an
open, honest stare.  "Okay.  Let's say you walk
out of here tomorrow.  By some chance, you
manage to travel, keeping low - though I don't
know how the hell you're going to do that. 
Where you gonna start?"

"There's gotta be some money around here... I'll
- I'll get to the nearest town and catch a bus,
or a train."

"To where?  You know where you wanna go?"

Mulder swallowed and looked away, his hand
shaking as he raked it through his long hair. 
"No," he admitted, then raised feverish eyes to
Frohike.  "But I can't just sit here anymore.  I
*have* to do something."

"Then sit down, Mulder.  I have an idea."

At the soft command, Mulder sagged, knowing his
friend was right on this one.  Much as he wanted
to break free and find her, this operation was
going to take some planning.  And Frohike had
proven a master strategist - he'd gotten them
all this far, hadn't he?

Sitting at the table once again, Mulder exhaled
in a sigh.  "Okay.  Lay it on me."

Frohike sat as well and began, "The mining
company - those looking for krycekite.  Perfect
way to travel these days.  We can *all* join
up."  He ignored the startled stares of Langly
and Byers and continued, "If Scully was taken by
the same men we've dealt with in the past, then
they've still got some power and probably have
her well-hidden.  No way we're gonna find her by
staring at the computers all day.  We need to
have transport - free, easy means of searching."

Mulder liked the idea so far.  "I'm listening."

His friend half-smiled.  "First of all, you've
got to lose the pretty boy looks."

"Pretty boy looks?" Mulder snorted.  "Have you
taken a good look at me lately?"

"Personally, I never saw the appeal, Mulder." 
Frohike's wry statement was delivered with an
undertone of jealousy.  "Though some did."

Dropping his eyes, Mulder replied in a murmur,
"Stop it, you're making me swell-headed."  He
had no desire to talk about his relationship
with Scully; their lives were not subject to
discussion.  Only one topic allowed that
included her, and he quickly resumed that tack. 
"So what - we don't exactly have the services of
a plastic surgeon at hand, you know."

"Don't need one," Frohike pointed out.  "Just a
little facial hair should do it.  And let your
hair keep growing - the longer, the better."

"But that could take a month or more!"

"You could use the time to recuperate."  Frohike
stood.  "And we could use the time to set things
up."

"Set things up?"

"Do a bit of poking around the Internet, set us
up some new identities, change *our* looks."

Byers and Langly both piped up at that, breaking
in with, "Our looks?"

Mulder stood as well, shaking his head.  "Sorry
guys, but this one's mine alone."

"No it isn't," Frohike said, his words serious
and his manner unflappable.  "This one's
important - and we're not staying behind this
time."

The other two men got up from their chairs and
faced Mulder, standing behind Frohike with arms
crossed.  Their nods were short, but adamant.

It was *very* important to Mulder.  After a
moment or two of vacillation, he realized that
they loved Scully as much as he did.  He'd
always known she was the better of them both.

Seemed everyone knew that before he did - before
he let her slip away from him.


Outside Denver, Colorado
September 17, 2001
10:08 a.m.


The bed of the truck was hard beneath his back
and he groaned as he drifted up through the
black pain of oblivion.  Piecemeal scenes of his
last waking moments slammed into him, just like
the bounty hunter's fist had done...

God, it all made sense.  A weird, still wacky
sense, but some of it fell open before him like
an instructional manual of extraterrestrial
life.  Jesse's comment that Eliza had a right-
hand man; the supposition that she had a healer
hidden upstairs.  The *healer* was the alien,
just as he was the assistant - and Eliza.  His
total disregard for the money, though it
probably went somewhere.  Like to whoever he was
working for.  Whoever he was taking Gabriel to
meet.

"I've been waiting for you," he'd said.  What
the hell did that mean?

Waiting for him - for what?  The aliens wanted
him alive now.  His mind raced as he strove to
put the puzzle together.  It can't be his
father... he was dead, or on a stairway to
heaven, so to speak.  The ships had retreated
back into the unknown.  For now, anyway.  Why
would this monster want him?

Unless it was as some sort of bargaining tool. 
The alien's shapeshifting ability was an asset
and he could very well stay hidden forever in
the scant population.  Especially in this
wilderness where no one cared who you were or
where you were going.  But there was always the
chance of discovery and people these days would
love nothing better than to torch any hybrid,
good or bad.

Maybe he'd been left behind and was willing to
trade Gabriel for passage home.  Memories of his
time aboard the alien vessel made him cold with
fear; yes, his father had let them experiment on
him, mostly for the cure for the old bastard's
illness.  But the torture was real, though he
couldn't remember anything really but the pain. 
The aliens had known he was a threat to them and
had entrusted his father to keep him under
control.

Is that where he was going?  To another ship? 
No, he wouldn't.  Though the alien had implied
that Gabriel would see her when he got to
wherever they were going, he did not want it to
be in these circumstances.  Now that he knew she
was alive and close, he knew only one other
thing - he had to escape and find her.


Undisclosed location
The Smoky Mountains
July 15, 2001
8:16 a.m.


Two months of waiting and he was damned tired of
it.  The Gunmen, hampered by the lack of
equipment and goods, had worked at a snail's
pace getting their needs together.  The bunker
was a woeful step down from the one in West
Virginia; really, just a repository for
emergency supplies.

It hadn't taken long for Mulder to figure out
that there had been no truck behind them, as
Frohike had said that first day on the run. 
He'd been lying to him, keeping up the ruse for
several weeks, explaining that others had made
it out, too - they were just in other bunkers
scattered throughout the mountains.  There
*were* no others besides them.  No connections,
no relief, no tangible place to hide and
communicate like they had before.

His friends were not wanted by the territorial
police, not like he was.  But they only ventured
out into the nearby villages - ghettos, really -
in search of food.  And then, they didn't dare
linger long, didn't take the chance on asking
questions or making their presence known.  Their
disguises were inventive and they just gathered
what they needed once or twice a month, then
returned to watch Mulder stew with restless
energy.

They bargained with leftover guns and
ammunition; Frohike had been uneasy about
depleting their protective resources, but
survival came first.  It wasn't like they could
eat lead - not that way, anyway.  Mulder had
once told them all to leave him, to begin again
with their lives.  They were free to do what
they wished now, without fear of reprisal.

"And let you go off and get yourself killed?"
Frohike had snorted.  "How many times do I have
to tell you - we're in this together.  Besides,
I don't have a yen to be put on the rack for
your sorry ass."

He'd been half-teasing, but Mulder knew it to be
true.  There were men still alive that knew of
his association with the trio and they would
dearly love to get their hands on a link to
Mulder's whereabouts.  Would they simply ask
politely?  Hell, no.  The Administration had
been replaced by men bent on revenge, striving
to erase all who'd betrayed the human race - who
might still rise to assist the Colonists in a
return engagement.

And they would come back, Mulder knew.  Maybe
not for years, but they would.  If he wasn't
such an ungrateful fuck, he'd stand up and
applaud their paranoia to anyone who cared to
listen.  I was right all along, he wanted to
scream to the skies.  And now you think I'm one
of them - fuck you all.

Times like those were few and far between,
however.  His pride laid in tatters around his
morose existence; the pride of self-righteous
indignation that had once made him unstoppable
had also cost him the dearest thing in his life.

Scully.  Taken from him while he slept in the
stupid dreams of a man who thought he had it all
- vindication, hope for the future, his friends
around him in safety, and the one woman who
would stand by him always.  That she'd done all
she did to save him still amazed him.  Sure,
he'd done things for her.  Going against
seemingly insurmountable odds to rescue her from
peril many times.

But he'd never changed for her.  She'd never
asked him to - and she never would.  She'd
changed her face, that classic, beautiful
structure of skin and bone that declared her to
be Maggie Scully's daughter.  Removed her
father's legacy of pride and dignity to bow
before men as a vessel of lust.

It sickened him even now, thinking how he'd
given in to that lust.  Though she'd told him
she loved him and had done what she did just for
him, he still couldn't help but feel that his
response was just another act in Fox Mulder's
tendency to use her and then retreat behind his
staunch beliefs.

Had he ever told her he loved her?  After they'd
reached the safety of the bunker, he'd enjoyed
her body, lived in her love - but had he ever
given her the affirmation that she needed?  On
his frequent sleepless nights, he tried to think
back, sure he had said the words.

"They'll love you, as I do."

No, that wasn't good enough.

"I love watching you."

Still not right.  The pain in his chest on those
nights refused to abate and he'd let silent
tears wet his dingy pillow.  No, he'd never
actually said, "I love you, Scully."

It was what he regretted most.

"Got it."

Frohike's blustery entrance snapped Mulder from
his slump at the table.  "Got what?"

Frohike reached into his pocket and tossed
Mulder a folded piece of paper.  As he opened
it, he noticed to unmistakable smear of blood in
its top right corner.

But he went for the obvious first.  "Territorial
papers," he breathed, looking up from the
official stamp at the bottom with a gleam of
hope.  "How the hell did you get these?"

Every citizen carried around papers from the
territorial government; it was required to move
around freely and to hold down a job.  They'd
not been able to get their hands on a bonafide
ID until now, and they were not confident in
their ability to leave the bunker without them.

Frohike cleared his throat and sat down.  "Let's
just say this guy won't be needing them
anymore."

Mulder swallowed and read the man's name.  Well,
just one name, really.  Johnston.  Employed by
the company, now apparently dead.

"Frohike, you didn't..."  The words stuck in his
throat; surely his friend wouldn't have -?

Coloring, Frohike leaned back.  "Of course not. 
I may be one of the best commandos around these
days, but I never had a taste for murder."  At
Mulder's sheepish grin, he continued, "Found the
guy strung up about a mile from here.  Best I
can figure, he tried to skip out on the
company."

Mulder nodded, knowing that the company had
exclusive rights to you once you signed that
contract.  They didn't take kindly to deserters. 
It made him uneasy to think of signing up with
such a group, but it was the only option they
had at this point.

"I know this is a stupid question," he began,
lifting humorous eyes to Frohike, "but can you
duplicate this - believably?"

Frohike puffed up.  "Is Langly a virgin?"

Mulder gave him a grim smile.  "You tell me."

Chuckling, Frohike stood.  "All I need is a
name, Mulder."

Mulder handed the precious piece of paper back
to his friend.  "Gabriel."

"Just Gabriel?"

The territorial police didn't care if you had
one name or twenty, neither did they care where
you came from or what you did before.  No need
for social security numbers, or a driver's
license, or tax withholdings.  All one needed
was that little piece of gold that Frohike held
in his hand.

"Yeah, just Gabriel."  At Frohike's perplexed
look, he stood as well and headed for the door,
fingering his heavy beard.  "Long story."


Outside Denver, Colorado
September 17, 2001
10:10 a.m.


Sunlight bled through the flaps in the canvas
covering of the truck bed and he knew the sun
had risen.  It had more than risen - from the
heat in the back of the truck, he figured it was
approaching mid-day.  But they couldn't have
gotten far to their destination; the truck was
moving at a snail's pace, picking its way
through the destruction on the outskirts of the
city.  Gabriel had seen for himself as he'd come
from the camp yesterday that there was really
only one cleared road in and out, and that one
was patrolled by the territorial police.  The
bounty hunter would not want to cause suspicion
and therefore would stay away from the better
path.

The ride was bumpy and slow and Gabriel winced
as he sat up, trying to wriggle his hands from
the rope-bound trap.  His ankles were tied as
well and his knife was long gone.  He considered
a leap from the back of the truck for just a
moment, then quickly discarded the idea.  What
good what it do if he was hog-tied?

But he couldn't wait until they stopped. 
Anything show of force against the alien was
ineffective and he knew it.  The being could
simply pick him up like a sack of potatoes and
deposit him at anyone's feet without breaking a
sweat.  He had to think of something, and fast.

He spied a crowbar in the corner of the bed and
an idea began to form.  Creeping to it, he
picked it up with both hands and got to his
knees behind the cab, peeking through the glass
with stealth, careful not to let the creature
see him.

With all his strength - and fighting the
leftover dizziness from the blow to the head -
he pulled back and rammed the straight end of
the crowbar through the glass.  He knew what was
coming, and he rolled back instantly, just as
the bounty hunter slumped forward.  The truck
began to careen wildly and the acrid fumes of
its blood flooded the dark cavern in the tarp.

Gabriel tried to hold his breath as he rolled to
the wooden tailgate, but the truck dipped and
swayed and he gasped as he realized they were
tipping over.  Jesus, they were on a mountain
pass, he thought.  No wonder the ride had been
so rocky.

The truck slid to the left, and Gabriel could no
longer hold his breath.  He gasped and
immediately grimaced at the burn that attacked
his eyes and nose.  But he kept going, vaulting
himself over the edge of the truck, his lungs
fighting for clear air.  With a blow to his
chest, he hit the ground and rolled, coming to a
halt as the truck slid into a steep, rocky fall.

Grimacing, he fell to his back, blinking a few
times to clear his head.  Other than the sounds
of nature that surrounded him, he heard nothing. 
A quick check for broken bones and injury, then
he shook off the beginnings of a headache and
crawled to his knees.  He brought his hands to
his eyes and winced at the puffy feel of them;
but they weren't as badly burned as the first
time he'd encountered such a creature.  Though
they were slitted and hurt like hell, he could
still see.

He looked around and spotted the truck on its
side below him, the two wheels facing up slowing
to a stop.  What it still alive?  Damn, he
didn't feel like checking, but he knew he had to
get these ropes off somehow.  Surely there was
something in the truck, some piece of twisted
metal he could use.

As he began to creep toward the truck, he heard
a shout from above.

"Gabe!"

Gabriel raised his head and squinted in the
sunlight.  The hulking figure at the top of the
incline was in shadow and he whispered, "Jesse?"
before pain made him close his eyes.



End Chapter Five