The X-Files: Antibodies
T H E X -F I L E S
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
Based on the characters created by Chris Carter
To all the agents, investigators, scientists, and other
employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In conjunction with my writing research, I have
met several agents and seen the Bureau at work on
real cases. These people aren’t all like Mulder and
Scully, but they are all proud of the professionalism
and dedication they bring to their jobs.
Contents
Late on a night filled with cold mist and still…
1
The bear stood huge, five times the size of an… 10
As Mulder led her out of the Hoover Building, Scully…
14
The dog stopped in the middle of the road, distracted…
21
The middle of morning on a gray day.
Early mist…
28
The house looked like most of the others on the… 33
No one would ever find them in this cabin, isolated…
38
Even through the thick fabric of her clumsy gloves, she…
43
Dr. Elliott Hughart was torn between intentionally putting the mangled…
48
Not long before sunset, a patch of bright blue
sky…
55
He tried to hide and he tried to sleep—but nothing…
60
Mulder didn’t feel at all nondescript or unnoticeable as he…
66
In a nondescript office with few furnishings, Adam Lentz sat…
74
The midday sunlight dappled the patches in the Oregon hills…
83
As they approached the veterinary clinic in the sleepy
coastal…
89
Some people might have thought being alone in a morgue…
96
The bridge spread out into the early morning fog. Its…
103
Mulder pulled up to the Mini Serve pump in the… 107
“We’re federal agents,” Mulder announced. “I’m going to reach for…
113
On hearing Jody’s cry, Patrice awoke from a restless sleep.
121
Edmund was amazed at how fast the officials arrived,
considering…
126
The ocean crashed against the black cliffs with a
hollow…
129
The cold rain sheeted down, drenching him and the roadside…
134
Scully was already tired of driving and glad for the…
140
Outside the cabin, Vader barked. He stood up on
the…
145
“Patrice!” Dorman called in a hoarse voice, then walked toward…
149
The dense trees clawed at him. Their branches scratched his…
156
The logging truck sat half off the road in a…
162
Scully became disoriented on the winding dirt logging roads, but…
170
No matter how far Jody ran, Dorman followed.
The
only…
174
The sudden carnage astonished Scully, and time seemed to stop…
181
The phone rang in Adam Lentz’s plain government office, and…
186
The red pickup truck Mulder had commandeered handled surprisingly well.
189
Fifty miles at least to the nearest hospital, along tangled…
192
The wounds in Jeremy Dorman’s throat had sealed, and a…
198
To Adam Lentz and his crew of professionals, the fugitives…
205
With a brief sigh from the backseat, Jody woke up…
209
As the pickup truck droned on and the darkness
deepened,…
213
As the two vehicles toiled down the muddy rutted drive,…
216
Scully’s cellular phone rang in the quiet darkness of the…
219
Satellite dishes mounted atop the van tilted at different azimuths…
224
Back to the haunted house, Scully thought as she
drove…
228
The hail of small-caliber bullets struck Jeremy Dorman, and he…
234
As soon as Lentz and his team conveniently appeared, Mulder…
238
The trap had sprung. Not as neatly as Adam Lentz…
242
The shock wave toppled some of the remaining girders and…
246
Mulder should have known the men in suits would be…
253
In the hospital, Scully checked and rechecked Jody Kennessy’s lab…
257
Adam Lentz made his final report verbally and face
to…
262
The people were strange here, Jody thought…but at least he…
266
273
Other Books in the X-Files Series
DyMar Laboratory Ruins
Sunday, 11:13 P.M.
Late on a night filled with cold mist and still X air, the alarm went off.
It was a crude security system hastily erected around the abandoned burn site, and Vernon Ruckman was the only guard stationed to monitor the night shift . . . but he got paid—
and surprisingly well—to take care that no intruders got into the unstable ruins of the DyMar Laboratory on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon.
He drove his half-rusted Buick sedan up the wet gravel driveway. The bald tires crunched up the gentle rise where the cancer research facility had stood until a week and a half ago.
Vernon shifted into park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out to investigate. He had to be sharp, alert.
He had to scope out the scene. He flicked on the beam of his official security flashlight—heavy enough to be used as a weapon—and shone it like a firehose of light into the blackened ruins that covered the site.
His employers hadn’t given Vernon his own security vehicle, but they had provided him with a uniform, 2
T H E X - F I L E S
a badge, and a loaded revolver. He had to display confidence and an intimidating appearance if he was to chase off rambunctious kids daring each other to go into the charred husk of the laboratory building. In the week and a half since the facility had been bombed, he had already chased a few trespassers away, teenagers who ran giggling into the night. Vernon had never managed to catch any of them.
This was no laughing matter. The DyMar ruins were unstable, set to be demolished in a few days.
Already construction equipment, bulldozers, steam shovels, and little Bobcats were parked around large fuel storage tanks. A padlocked locker that contained blasting caps and explosives. Someone sure was in a hurry to erase the remains of the medical research facility.
In the meantime, this place was an accident waiting to happen. And Vernon Ruckman didn’t want it to happen on
his
watch.
The brilliant flashlight beam carved an expanding cone through the mist and penetrated the labyrinth of tilted girders, charred wooden beams, and fallen roof timbers. DyMar Lab looked like an abandoned movie set for an old horror film, and Vernon could imagine celluloid monsters shambling out of the mist from where they had lurked in the ruins.
After the fire, a rented chain-link fence had been thrown up around the perimeter—and now Vernon saw that the gate hung partially open. With a soft exhale of breeze, the chain-link sang faintly, and the gate creaked; then the air fell still again, like a held breath.
He thought he heard movement inside the building, debris shifting, stone and wood stirring. Vernon swung the gate open wide enough for him to enter the premises. He paused to listen carefully, then proceeded with caution, just like the guidebook said to antibodies
3
do. His left hand gripped the flashlight, while his right hovered above the heavy police revolver strapped to his hip.
He had handcuffs in a small case on his leather belt, and he thought he knew how to use them, but he had never managed to catch anyone yet. Being a night-time security guard generally involved a lot of reading, mixed with a few false alarms (especially if you had a vivid imagination)—and not much else.
Vernon’s girlfriend was a night owl, an English major and aspiring poet who spent most of the night waiting to be inspired by the muse, or else putting in a few hours at the round-the-clock coffee shop where she worked. Vernon had adjusted his own biological cycle to keep up with her, and this night-shift job had seemed the perfect solution, though he had been tired and groggy for the first week or so.
Now Vernon was wide awake as he entered the burned-out labyrinth.
Someone was indeed in there.
Old ashes crunched under his feet, splinters of broken glass and smashed concrete. Vernon remembered how this research facility had once looked, a high-tech place with unusual modern Northwestern architecture—a mixture of glossy futuristic glass and steel, and rich golden wood from the Oregon coastal forests.
The lab had burned quite well after the violent protest, the arson, and the explosion.
It wouldn’t surprise him if this late-night intruder was something more than just kids—perhaps some member of the animal rights group that had claimed responsibility for the fire. Maybe it was an activist collecting souvenirs, war trophies of their bloody victory.
Vernon didn’t know. He just sensed he had to be careful.
He stepped deeper inside, ducking his head to 4
T H E X - F I L E S
avoid a fallen wooden pole, black and warty with gray-white ashes where it had split in the intense heat.
The floor of the main building seemed unstable, ready to tumble into the basement levels. Some of the walls had collapsed, partitions blackened, windows blasted out.
He heard someone moving stealthily. Vernon tilted the flashlight around, and white light stabbed into the shadows, making strange angles, black shapes that leapt at him and skittered along the walls. He had never been afraid of closed-in spaces, but now it seemed as if the whole place was ready to cave in on him.