by Tim Lebbon
“Thanks to that window you went through,” said Scully.
“Keep up with me,” Mulder said.
They jogged across the parade ground. By the time they reached the road at the other end, the rain was a drizzle and the wind had died. The bunker was still a half mile away.
When they finally arrived at where the tunnel entrance should be, there was no iron door and no concrete structure upon which to hang it. Apparently, the place had been leveled. Instead, there was an octagonal gazebo, painted yellow with green trim, large enough for a small band. Several chairs stood in a semi-circle on its floor; two more had blown over. The area around the gazebo was a lawn, as if for an audience to sit on. The grass was high; nobody had mowed it in weeks.
Mulder climbed the steps and stood on the floor of the gazebo, searching for a trap door. “Look underneath, see if there’s any opening under here,” he told the others.
Scully and Allen dropped to their hands and knees and peered through the wooden cribbing.
“Nothing but flat, bare ground,” Scully called from her crawling position, and they both stood.
Mulder addressed them all: “Okay, we’re down to one option: We have to get to the bluff where the windows are. Show us how, kids.”
Allen nodded. “This way.”
They followed him into the woods and down an incline. By then the sun was shining on the calming sea. The four started across the rocks lining the shore, but the rain had so slickened the irregular surfaces that they had to help each other ⎯ Allen holding Carole’s hand, and Mulder, Scully’s. Progress was slow.
“Damn,” Scully exclaimed after about ten yards, as her foot slid and jammed between rocks. “Damn!” she said again, in pain.
“Give me a hand,” Mulder said to Allen. Allen kneeled down and pulled up the rock that was trapping Scully’s ankle, while Mulder steadied her until she could regain her footing. But her ankle was bruised and moving over the rocks had become impossible.
“Let’s try it down there,” Mulder said, indicating the flats, now exposed by the tide that had been receding since they’d first left the bunker.
“No chance!” she replied. “You kidding?”
The flats were not all the lowering tide had exposed. Ahead, two of the three skeletons were visible again. Scully’s objection caused Carole to look up, and as soon as she saw the skeletons she sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand. Allen reached for her and urged her forward.
“We’ll stay close to the shore and away from those things,” Mulder said. He helped Scully limp her way to and across the sandy flats, through the bushes and up the beach to the bluff, where Carole ⎯ tears still brimming ⎯ and Allen stood waiting. Nothing had arisen from the skeletons.
“Watch for Mr. Barton,” Mulder told the women. To Allen, he said, “You guys came out that window, correct?” He pointed at the Bad window, below which the ladder still stood.
“Yeah, although there wasn’t any ladder there,” Allen replied.
“Understood. Give me a hand.” Allen helped Mulder reposition the ladder beneath the other window.
“Okay, Scully, now you’re the guinea pig. Head on up, and after you’re inside tell us if anything happened to you.” To the kids he said, “Help Scully up the ladder. After she assures you she’s okay, go through the window yourselves. Otherwise, stay here.”
“What are you going to do?” Scully asked, worried.
“Barton-watch.”
“Your goddam theory had better be right. If I die I’ll never forgive you.”
“Don’t. Die, that is.”
Mulder moved to the side of the ladder and turned so that his back was to the cliff. He surveyed the flats. “If and when everyone’s inside, let me know. If I understand how the windows operate, you’ll have to tell me through the Bad window. The left one,” he added for the kids’ sake.
He waited, his hand on the ladder.
Moments later, from Scully: “It worked, I’m okay, c’mon up.”
In less than a minute he heard Allen from above: “We all made it.”
Relieved, Mulder walked to the shoreline. Then he realized he’d forgotten something: “Which one’s your friend’s skeleton?” he yelled over his shoulder.
“The closest one to you, just to your left,” Allen replied.
That put it about 15 yards away. Mulder took a deep breath, ran to the skeleton, and wrenched at a finger bone.
“Watch out!” Allen yelled. “It’s coming back!”
Mulder kept trying to work the bone loose but the sinews were too tight.
“You gotta move!” Allen bellowed.
Mulder looked up. The swirly thing was now about as tall as a grown man. He shuddered with fear. Giving up on the finger bone, he put a foot on the skeleton’s shoulder, grabbed the upper arm, and simultaneously yanked and twisted. The arm came free.
The vortex was now eight feet tall. It towered, bobbing.
Sweating, Mulder sprinted across the flats and the beach.
“Here it comes!” someone yelled. “It’s chasing you!”
Carrying the arm in one hand, Mulder grabbed the ladder with the other. He went to step on the bottom rung, but his foot slipped.
“Damn,” he swore. At that moment he felt like he’d been thrust in an incinerator. The worst of the heat was coming from behind. He was broiling and baking at the same time. He tried to force himself up the ladder, but his legs would not move. His fingers slid off the rung. He couldn’t breathe. The heat was unbearable.
Cold water drenched him. Suddenly his legs worked. He scrambled up the ladder as if the hounds of hell were chasing him and dove through the window. His right foot caught the frame of the window. He twisted in mid-air and landed on the floor on his left shoulder. The hideous thing he had been carrying flew across the room.
“Nice entrance,” Scully said. She limped forward to help him up.
“Thanks.” Mulder stood, scrutinizing Allen, Carole, and Scully. They appeared normal. Gorman was standing behind them, an old man, solemn.
“Everyone okay?” Mulder asked.
All nodded.
“Who did the water,” he asked.
“Me,” Allen said.
“After we got up here, I asked Allen to fill a pail,” Scully explained.
“I was going to dump it on you to get the thing to leave you alone,” Allen said. “But it was so fast, instead of hitting just you I hit you both at the same time.”
“Lucky for everyone,” Scully added
“Thanks,” Mulder said. “It was like being inside a torch. Now I know what it felt like to be Joan of Arc.” With his fingers, he swept water off his forehead. “Well, we were right, weren’t we? Twice. The Good window worked. And Mr. Barton doesn’t like water.”
“If it’s the same Mr. Barton,” Scully added. “There might be a whole family of them.”
Mulder looked out the Good window and saw an ordinary tugboat towing a barge. It was close to high tide. He went to the other window. The tide was lower and the same two skeletons were lying in the exposed sea bottom.
Meanwhile Scully had scooped up the bones. As she put them in a box Gorman handed her, she said, “Mulder, we’ve got to get these kids home and call off the search. What are we gonna tell their parents, and this girl’s parents” ⎯ she raised the box ⎯ “about what happened?”
“How can we tell them anything?” Mulder replied. “First of all, we don’t know what happened. Mr. Barton, the skeletons, the sudden change in the fort. None of it makes sense.”
“I know. No way in hell anyone’s gonna believe us,” Scully replied. “We need a cover story.”
Ed Gorman spoke up: “How about they got stranded on Cow Island overnight?” The agents looked puzzled, so he explained: “Cow Island is about two acres of rock and bushes just to the north of here. It’s uninhabited.”
Scully nodded. She gestured at the kids: “You caught a ride over there with a friend and he promised he’d come back to pick you up
, but he didn’t. So you had to wait to catch a passing boat and that didn’t happen until today. Does that work?”
“I guess so,” Carole said. “But what about Jackie?”
“She wanted to get back last night so she started swimming, and you haven’t seen her since,” suggested Mulder.
“Not good,” Allen said. “She didn’t like to swim, and she hated cold water.”
“Look,” said Mulder. “It doesn’t have to be the best story in the world. We’ll figure out some way for the FBI to take jurisdiction. We’ll conduct an official investigation, and she’ll simply have gone missing.” He looked at Scully. “We’ll figure out the details later.
“But it’s not true,” Carole said. “I’m sorry, but it’s all a big lie!”
“You’re right, Carole,” Mulder agreed. “But think about your Mr. Barton out there. What’s ‘true’ about that?”
Scully joined in. “What choice do we have? We can’t just say nothing, because everyone will know something happened. And if we tell the ‘truth’”—she mimed quotation marks with her fingers—“we’ll all get labeled as crazies.”
Mulder nodded. “Or maybe panic everyone else. It’s not that we like lying. Sometimes ⎯ not often, but sometimes ⎯ the truth has to be contained, as if it were anthrax, or a deadly virus. This is one of those times. Do you see what I mean?”
“Here’s some reassurance,” Scully added. “Mulder will make a full and honest report and file it with our office. But they won’t make it public.”
Carole looked at Allen and then back at Scully. “Is this what they mean about government conspiracies?”
Smiling, Scully nodded. “Yup, you’re dead center in the middle of a big, fat government conspiracy. But when you’re on the inside, it doesn’t look so evil, does it. Because” ⎯ she shrugged ⎯ “what else can we do?”
Allen was nodding. “If we ever tried to explain what really happened I can see our faces staring out at us from those tabloids in the supermarket checkout lines.”
Carole frowned. Then, hesitantly: “I guess so.”
Mulder turned to Gorman. “Speaking of containment, Ed, do we have any masons on our staff?”
“Yes, we’ve got a special detail that just finished a project in Council Bluffs.”
“Get them up here as fast as you can. I want that left window bricked up ⎯ no, don’t use brick, use granite. Two courses thick. You stay here till it’s done, and then we’ll work on permanent plans ⎯ including what to do for you. If you want to try going back through the window to reverse your aging, we need to know before they get here.”
“Okay, I’ll think on it.” Gorman tottered to the phone.
“Let’s get some tape to wrap that box up tight,” Mulder told Scully. “We’ll come back to pick it up after we get the wardens to call off the search and we’ve talked to the parents. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take these guys to theirs. You’re gentler than I am. I’d be grateful if you’d talk to Jackie’s. And we’ll need some DNA from them for comparison.”
Scully nodded grimly. “Of course.”
He walked over to Carole and put his arm around her. “We’ll work on your cover story on the way.” Then, to Allen. “C’mon, let’s go home.”
*****
MONDAY, 2:45 p.m.
Six weeks later, a tall man in his fifties, wearing a suit and a fedora and carrying a brief case, walked past the barracks buildings. He was a gray, unremarkable man. The workmen who were installing front steps and painting a front door paid no attention to him.
He crossed the parade ground and followed the road to the iron door. A large, new padlock hung from a hasp welded to the front. He pulled some keys from his pants pocket, selected one, unlocked and removed the padlock, and pushed the door inward. From his attaché case he took out a flashlight, shone it down the tunnel, and entered, following its beam.
When he reached the chamber, he aimed the light at the right window, which was covered with a curtain. Then he aimed it at the left window ⎯ or where the window had been. From bottom to top, the space was filled with granite paving blocks mortared into place. He crossed the room to inspect the construction closely.
He shone his flashlight on two of the stones and lightly, slowly, ran his finger along the joint between them. After a moment, tiny grains of mortar trickled down, like crystals of salt from a reluctant saltshaker, barely visible to the naked eye.
He delicately stroked the mortar between two other stones, higher up. Minute particles started falling from that intersection ⎯ one or two specks at a time, perceptible only to someone watching closely, some so small they floated down the face of the masonry.
He ran his finger along all the other joints, caressing them.
When he’d finished, he turned around, and the flashlight’s beam revealed a tall wooden stool nearby. He pulled it up and sat before the new stonework. Securing the flashlight against his chest with his upper arm, he put his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. From one pocket he pulled a cigarette, from the other a lighter. He lit the cigarette and inhaled, watching as tiny grains of particulate drifted, with increasing frequency, down through the beam of light.
Ever so slightly, he smiled.
The End
STATUES
By Kevin J. Anderson
FURNACE CREEK
DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK
11th MAY, 1995, 10:16 a.m.
The blazing sun washed across a rugged landscape of brown, tan, copper, ochre—like a watercolor painted with molten precious metals. Ragged mountains rose from the valley floor, and a razor-straight road sliced across the desert, a place of recreational vehicles and gawking tourists in a valley where old pioneers had seen only death.
A red Jeep roared along the shimmering road, like a spot of blood flying in a spatter pattern from a murder weapon. The wheels kissed the gravel shoulder and kicked up a spray of rocks before the driver regained control, barely avoiding a rollover.
The Jeep hurtled toward a cluster of civilization at the vanishing point on the other side of the valley, a splash of unexpected green in the desert. Furnace Creek: a campground, gift shop, gas station, and world-class resort facilities in startling contrast to the rest of Death Valley. Golfers in colorful shirts and plaid shorts stood on the well-watered greens and paused mid-swing to watch the oncoming Jeep.
The driver struck the knot of town, dodging pedestrians and a “luxury coach” tour bus. More of a projectile than a vehicle, the Jeep raced beneath an arch spanning the highway—FURNACE CREEK RANCH, complete with a saloon, general store, steakhouse, boardwalk, and decorative hitching posts.
The Jeep smashed into a split-rail fence in front of the saloon and lurched to a stop. The engine gasped, and the radiator exploded with steam. Spectators rushed to help, while others just stared; a few even took photos to memorialize the event for their family vacation scrapbook.
The driver’s door popped open with a loud creak, and he wrenched himself out of the smashed vehicle. He moved stiffly, dazed, and hauled himself into a brittle standing position. The man swayed, then lurched forward with a stiff-legged gait, like the Tin Woodsman from The Wizard of Oz. He turned his head, but his face was chalky, his expression unnatural and frozen. He couldn’t speak.
A Park Service ranger hurried out of the nearby Visitor Center. The driver took two lurching steps toward the ranger, as if hoping for rescue, heaved a loud gasp, then fell forward like a toppled tree. His clothes, hands, face, even his hair were caked with glittering mineral deposits as if he had been sprayed with wet flour and sand that had dried hard in the sun.
The ranger squatted next to the fallen man, who lay motionless as if petrified. He grabbed the driver’s shoulders, listened for respiration.
“Why is he so white?” asked a potbellied man in a t-shirt that said I Survived Death Valley.
The ranger touched the fallen man’s wrist, looking for a pulse, then he tried to lift the arm, but it was stiff, like a statue. Whe
n he touched the victim’s cheek, there was no resilience whatsoever to the skin. The eyes were open and staring—and solid chalky white.
The ranger said, “He’s... turned to stone.”
*****
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 4:52 p.m.
The Medusa mask was hideous, the hair a tangle of fanged snakes, a face that would have been the sure-fire winner in a “Psycho Ex-Girlfriend” photo contest. From behind the mouth slit, he said, “Hi, Scully.”
Standing in Mulder’s office, Agent Scully put her hands on her hips, not the least bit scared. He pulled the mask away so she could see his wry smile. “It’s a Medusa mask. You never know what might be useful.” He set the mask on the clutter of his desk. “It’s research for a new case. According to Greek legend, a glance from Medusa could turn people to stone. This is said to be an exact representation.”
“And how would any sculptor manage to get a good look without turning to stone himself?”
Mulder wasn’t deterred by logical conundrums. “Stories about creatures that can turn humans to stone appear in many cultures—Medusa, the basilisk, the cockatrice.”
Scully said, “The legends probably originated from people finding fossils. It was their attempt to explain how living creatures could have turned to stone. In fossilization, minerals gradually replace organic matter over a very long period, leaving a stone copy of the original creature.”
He could barely contain his smile, since she had asked exactly the right questions. “Yes, the process is supposed to take centuries. Normally.”
Scully waited. They had played this game many times before.
Mulder showed her a photo he had printed out. She looked at the white petrified man sprawled on the ground at the Furnace Creek Ranch. “This man fossilized instantaneously—in front of dozens of witnesses.”
She frowned at the photo. “Mulder, that’s impossible.”
“The victim was a freelance prospector for a mineral reclamation company out in the Mojave Desert. According to initial reports from the medical examiner, he has mineralized all the way down to the bone.” He took the photo back and slid it into its folder and added it to his open briefcase. “Now do you see why I’m interested? We need to find out where this man went and what he discovered. They’re holding the body for us to examine. Travel papers already filed.” He hurried her out of the office. “We’re heading out to Death Valley. I already packed sunscreen.”
