Next To Godliness (2/?)
by Eve Dutton
dr_dana@xfilesfan.com
Disclaimers and author's stuff in Part One.

3.
Casey Falls
5:30 a.m.


Graham Hurley showered slowly and dressed quickly. He
took his bag lunch out of the fridge, kissed his sleeping
daughter on the cheek, and locked the door behind him.

Outside, the sun was debating whether or not to make its
debut appearance. The sky was a rich lavender in color, the
clouds already beginning to break apart. Such a beautiful
morning. It was going to be a great day, Graham thought,
swinging himself up into the cab of his pickup. He was a
small man, but solidly built, and, as he himself was fond of
pointing out, he walked tall.

He eased the truck out into the deserted street. There was
rarely any traffic this early in the morning. He stopped at
the five and ten to snag a couple of coffees and the morning
paper before swinging round to pick up Riley.

Riley Thomas had been the foreman at their site for two
weeks now, overseeing the construction of a smart new
shopping complex out by the highway. Only the tourists
would use the place, of course, but, after all, that was why
it was being put there. Riley and Graham had been buddies,
on and off, since their diaper days.

"Coffee there for you." This time, Graham meant to ensure
the friendship stayed on. It never hurt to be in the foreman's
good books, after all.

"Thanks." Riley perused the paper, sipping his coffee at
regular intervals. Outside, the sun was coming up.

"Hey, d'you hear about that guy they shot in the park last
weekend?"

"I thought it was the schoolyard."

Graham's broad shoulders heaved up, then down. "Could've
been. Wherever it was, guy was nuts or something. Put
Eddie Bryant in the hospital."

"No shit? Eddie Bryant?"

"Yah, I sure wouldn't," he paused at the stop light, leaning
down to scratch his ankle, "wanna tangle with that
sumbitch on a dark night."

"Jee-zus."

"Ah, well. They brought that mother down, you can be sure
of that. I heard they put nine bullets in 'im. Hey, how'd the
Cubs do last night?"

Riley flipped pages. "Shit-all, as usual," he crowed. "Y'owe
me five bucks, pal."

Graham raked his fingernails across his forearm, trying to
get at the spot where the itch seemed to have spread. Damn
cheap-ass laundry detergent. Tina always bought the
no-name stuff. That girl economized like there was no
tomorrow. "I'll go d-double or nothin'--" His teeth wouldn't
stop chattering. "Damn, man, turn up the heat, would ya?"

Riley had abandoned the paper to stare at him. "You okay?"

"Yuh'm fine, why?"

"You don't look fine."

The itch just seemed to intensify the more he scratched at
it. Now it was all over his scalp. He dug into the skin, hard.
The pads of his fingers felt wet; a thin, hot line of blood
trickled down his temple, burning brightly, and made its
way into his eye.

He blinked.

The truck swerved.

"Shit, Graham, pull over."

"It's just a little rash, Riley, I'm--"

"Pull *over*." The edge of terror in Riley Thomas' voice
sent a chill coursing through Graham--but there were so
many conflicting sensations threatening to envelop him that
he barely noticed. "You're sick or something. Prob'ly caught
the tail end of that flu that's been going around."

Then he caught sight of his face in the rearview mirror.

"What the fu--"

While not exactly edifying, they were, in fact, the last
words Graham Hurley would ever say.

And the last ones Riley Thomas would ever hear.

4.
Casey Falls
The Crack of Dawn


Most of Casey Falls, it seemed, was still asleep when
Mulder and Scully arrived, so they took the opportunity to
get a glimpse of the town itself. The main street was like a
Norman Rockwell painting--right down to the local soda
shop, directly across from where they stood--but one got
the sense that this effect was a calculated one. Casey Falls
was, after all, the quintessential tourist town.

Fluorescent green banners, seemingly the only modern
touch, had been strung between every pair of available
objects, proclaiming the marvels of this year's annual
science-fiction convention. "Presented by T. E. Darnell"
headlined one and all, leaving no doubt as to the origins of
the convention's fiduciary support. The theme was "The
Thing From Another World", and participants were,
naturally, encouraged to come dressed as their favorite
fictional extra-terrestrials. Posters advertising book sales,
movie showings, and related special events, adorned almost
every window. Some of the more enterprising merchants
were already open for business (Scully had thus far resisted
Mulder's efforts to drag her into shops selling back issues
of FATE) and a few early risers were investigating the
inevitable t-shirt deals.

There are a great many things which might draw more
stares than someone wearing dark glasses on a cloudy
morning; Mulder knew this, having seen more than several
men's fair share of such things. Unfortunately, none of
them happened to be roaming the streets of Casey Falls.
Not this particular street, at any rate. But then again...

"Check it out." He nodded across the street at a couple of
female Klingons, who sat licking chocolate ice cream
cones. "I could suddenly go for a double scoop of Rocky
Road. How about you?"

Scully met his expectant gaze with one of her own. "You
promised me breakfast."

A nod from Mulder, one hand indicating the soda shop.

"Ice cream is not breakfast."

"Why not? It covers all the major food groups: dairy, fruits,
grains, and chocolate." A smile twitched at the corners of
his mouth.

She checked her watch--forty-five minutes until their
meeting with the county M.E.--then nodded reluctantly.
"But you owe me," she added to his retreating back. He
mumbled what she assumed was some sort of affirmation
over his shoulder.

She sat on one of the ornate hardwood benches lining the
street, and watched Mulder strike up a conversation with
the pair of convention-goers. It wasn't hard, from the look
of things--a friendly hello, accompanied by that boyish
smile, soon got the conversational ball rolling. Scully was
able to catch snippets here and there, the most discernible
being praise of Mulder's tie (burgundy, emblazoned with
flashy flying saucers). One woman led the discussion in an
animated monologue, peppered with her companion's
interjections. Mulder stood silent, hands in his pockets,
contributing the occasional nod. Absorbing every detail, no
doubt. He took his time ordering, and made at least one
remark that elicited boisterous laughs from both.

He eventually returned, bearing a large, garishly-colored
cup of what appeared to be mostly syrup. It turned out to be
a banana split of gargantuan proportions, doused with
chocolate, chunks of pineapple, and blueberry sauce,
smothered in generous amounts of whipped cream, and
topped off by a pair of luscious cherries.

"What, no strawberry?"

"That red dye's a killer, Scully." He worked at his own ice
cream. "I assumed you, as a medical professional, would be
aware of these things. Hope you like sprinkles."

She did. Managing a small spoonful, she was forced to
concede that it was "Not bad."

"See what you've been missing?"

"I was wrong to ever doubt you, Mulder." She scooped up a
cherry. "Hear anything interesting?"

"I think they dig me." One of the Klingons bared her teeth
obligingly in his direction.

Scully rolled her eyes. "They probably think you're in
costume."

"One of them asked if I knew anything about the mutant
man the cops shot in the school grounds on Friday night."
He sat down, hooking an elbow over the back of the bench,
and fixed her with a significant look over the tops of his
mirrored lenses. "Said she heard he was a law student from
Topeka, here with his wife for a vacation."

She swallowed. "It wouldn't take a whole lot of digging to
come up with that information. It's probably even been in
the local papers."

"Actually, it hasn't--not yet, at least. She also said he was
perfectly normal when he arrived here. There are rumors of
other cases; people coming here to relax, leaving in body
bags... makes you wonder if it's something in the water."
He reached over, plucked off the remaining cherry, and
popped it into his mouth. "Looks like the local authorities
haven't kept as tight a lid on this thing as they would like to
think."

"Mulder, when a woman in full battle armor and a
prosthetic forehead comes to the same conclusions as you
do, what does that tell you?"

He smiled knowingly. "Eat your breakfast before it melts."



Approximately twenty minutes later, the two agents were
ushered into the office of the Medical Examiner--an office
that would make the broom closet a welcome expansion.
Carl Fontaine, a tiny, fragile-looking fellow with wispy
ash-blond hair and a pronounced lisp, was just "thrilled to
death--no pun intended" to be meeting real live FBI agents.
He shook each of their hands for almost a minute, then
launched into an enthusiastic discourse on how he had been
a fan of the Bureau ever since he was a boy. While he was
apparently very eager to show them the cadaver, there were
forms to fill out, reports to be looked over, that sort of
thing.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder--should I draw the blinds?" he
was asking.

"Hmm?" Scully tapped one end of her pen on her glasses,
prompting Mulder to recall a certain pair of shades it was
now ridiculously dark to be wearing. "Oh." He removed
them, causing the diminutive doctor to do something of a
refined double take.

"Your last assignment must have been a bitch and a half,"
he said, in a soft, cultured voice that rendered the words a
mere pleasantry.

Mulder shook his head. "Actually, we had a small
disagreement over what toppings to order on a pizza." He
indicated his partner, who had elected not to qualify the
comment with a response. "Scully here has a pretty wicked
right hook."

Fontaine, uncertain of what to do with that information,
cleared his throat delicately and addressed the remainder of
his remarks to the other half of the team. "Well. Everything
seems to be in order here. We can pay our little visit to Mr.
Whitaker now, if you like."

Scully nodded. "Thank you."

Fontaine led the way down a gently sloping corridor, Scully
and Mulder following a few steps behind. The medical
facility was obviously a fairly new addition, judging from
the way the corridor gradually became lighter and more
spacious. The color of the walls shifted from an atrociously
bright yellow to a softer pale blue, and then a nondescript
white, flooded by fluorescents. As they entered the room,
harsh light, the kind that washes out and stylizes, threw
facial features into stark relief.

The body on the slab before them--what there was left of
it--could hardly be classified as human. The face was
horribly distended, the torso swollen and bulging in front,
the limbs corded and elongated in places they shouldn't
have been--yet certain features from the "before" pictures
were distinct and recognizable. Looking at Martin
Whitaker's remains evoked a sensation similar to that of
standing before a funhouse mirror. Mulder began to
question the wisdom of ice cream for breakfast.

"Poor bastard," Fontaine observed.

You said it, thought Mulder.

Whitaker had been peppered with bullets; clearly visible
were a couple in the remaining leg, at least three in the
midsection, one in either arm, and the shots to the head
which had presumably ended his life.

Mulder, who had seen quite enough of Martin Whitaker for
the moment, turned his back and studied the laminated
anatomy charts on the wall. He heard the snap of latex
gloves, and then a puzzled, "You haven't done the autopsy
yet?"

"I heard you were coming, and I thought you might want,
you know, first crack at him."

Scully responded to this rather dubious honor with,
"Thanks."

"Uh, if it's all right, Agent Scully, I'd like to observe."

Mulder had to smile at that.

"You don't mind, do you?"

The enigmatic Dr. Scully had a groupie.



"Well, Scully?"

She was elbow-deep in human remains when the question
came--which was par for the course working on the
X-Files. To her left stood Carl Fontaine, M.D.,
pink-cheeked and beaming, a smear of something she didn't
care to guess at garnishing his forehead just below the
hairline. He had sent away the diener early on in the
proceedings, preferring to perform the assistant's duties
himself. The thought that he was actually enjoying this
irritated her even more than Mulder's question.

What they had found was positively frightening.

"Subject died of multiple gunshot wounds," she told her
tape recorder. "Time of death, approximately two a.m.
Saturday, which fits with the police reports...."

"Come on, Scully, you know what I want to hear."

"To tell you the truth, Mulder, I'm not even sure where to
begin."

"For one thing," Fontaine interjected excitedly, "he's got
two livers."

"What?" Mulder looked to Scully, who nodded.

"Yeah. God, this is amazing--come here and take a look,
Agent Mulder." Fontaine plunged both hands deep into the
cavity, producing an unpleasantly wet noise.

"Thanks, but I'd hate to de-sanitize your nice clean floor."

The blinking red light on the tape recorder recalled Scully
to the task at hand.

"There seem to be," she continued in a practiced clinical
tone, "multiple organs. Smaller--I would be tempted to
employ the term 'vestigial'--duplicates of the liver and the
heart have been detected."

Mulder's lips formed a single word.

"I have yet to determine how or why these organs may have
developed, although their existence does explain, to some
degree, the unusual appearance of the subject."

She glanced across the autopsy bay at her partner.

"It may also explain his sudden dementia."

Mulder mouthed the word again.

*Mutation.*

5.
Casey Falls
12:23 p.m.


"I suppose it would be too much to ask that you refrain
>from telling people *I* did that to you," Scully remarked as
Mulder parked the rental car beside a small shop. Its signs,
stencilled in bright reds and blues, displayed the familiar
Rx symbol.

"You're right," Mulder replied. "What was I thinking? I
mean, who would believe that? Can you even reach that
high, Scully?"

He got out of the car without giving her a chance to reply.

"My shampoo's still in Pleasant," he explained, almost as an
afterthought. "Time for an impulse buy."

As she unbuckled her seat belt and reached for the door
handle, Mulder apparently had a sudden attack of
consideration and asked if there was anything she needed.
She toyed--briefly--with the idea of deputizing him to buy
tampons, but decided she needed to stretch her legs
anyhow.

The drugstore, air-conditioned and ultra-sanitized like most
of its ilk, stocked everything up to (and including) the
kitchen sink. Scully, in the true spirit of impulse buying,
grabbed a paperback novel and a couple of extra items
>from the candy counter. After a brief tour, she was
browsing the shelves in the feminine hygiene aisle when
Mulder made an impromptu appearance.

"Here." She handed him an elongated blue and white tube.

"Thanks, but I'm a Colgate man, actually..."

"I can't do anything for your masculine pride, but that
should bring down the swelling around your eye."

It was apparent his mind was on other things when he
responded with, "Anything strike you as odd about this
place, Scully?"

"Odd?" She glanced around. The only thing out of place, as
far as she could see, was the man in the dark suit and
sunglasses standing beside her, a bottle of shampoo in each
hand. Him, she was used to. "Not really. Why?"

Mulder held out one of the bottles. 'Natural Selections' was
splashed in blue over a field of daisies. The large print
boasted the usual guarantees, the small print the usual
disclaimers. A bit overpriced, maybe, but hardly a cause for
alarm--

"Look." He pointed to the manufacturer's logo (the smallest
print of all): T.E. Darnell, Ltd. The name was familiar.
Mulder proffered the other bottle. 'Saturation', also
manufactured by T.E. Darnell Ltd., promised an advanced
formula that instantly blasted the scalp with
'hyrdo-nutrients'.

She deliberated before employing a well-used phrase: "I
don't get it, Mulder."

He started pulling different products off the shelves,
showing her each one in turn. Lotions, cosmetics,
deodorants, all of them stamped with the T.E. Darnell icon.
Scully examined her own selections, and, sure enough, it
was there too.

"Look around--do you see any of the usual brands?"

She didn't. Some familiar colors, some generic imitations,
but that was all.

"This one company supplies every product in the store."

"Maybe they own the store."

"Maybe." Mulder gestured to one of the ever-present green
banners. Presented by T.E. Darnell. Of course. "Maybe they
own the whole town."

"Maybe." She took a package labelled 'New! With Wings!'
out of his hand and replaced it on the shelf. "But how does
that relate to anything?"

"I never said it did." He began shoving the remaining
products onto a top shelf, pausing to grin at her. "I just said
it was odd."

She was framing a suitable reply (*Mulder, you're odd*
seemed too obvious) when her cell phone chirped.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Carl Fontaine. Do you think you and
your partner could make it to the County Sheriff's
sometime in the near future?"

She beckoned to said partner, who was mouthing the words
'masculine pride' and receiving some very singular looks
from another shopper in the feminine hygiene section.
"Sure, why?"

"I'm afraid we may have another body for you."

end part 2