This is my first foray into writing fan fiction.  I wanted to
try something a little different, so I chose to tell the story
from the first person (Scully) perspective.  Basically, it
involves terrorism, some serious bad guys, tropical drinks
with those cute little umbrellas in them, and Mulder and
Scully on location.   As it progresses, it eventually involves
Mulder and Scully becoming more than just partners, but it
doesn't get romantic for a while.  If you can't entertain the
prospect of our heros being real, caring people, you may
want to stop now.   

This is Part Two to a twelve to fifteen part story.
  
The following work is for the distribution and entertainment
of EMXC members only.  Any further distribution of this
work without the author's permission (that's me) is in
violation of federal law.
  
All the usual disclaimers apply here.  I own nothing except
my imagination--and sometimes I wonder if that's not
rented, too.  Anyway, no infringement or harm is intended
to Chris Carter, Fox , or Ten Thirteen Productions.  They
own it all.  I do, however, wish to say thanks, guys,  for
letting me play.
  
                               
                          Isosceles
                               
                              by
                               
                        Lisa Pritchard
                        LBoneP@AOL.com
                        March 16, 1996
                                
Part II
  
The buzz from the other passengers filled the close cabin. 
By this time nearly all the passengers realized we were
landing on an island--and it sure as hell wasn't Manhattan.
  
I braced myself for the landing out of reflex, but there was
no need.  We touched down like a feather floating into soft
grass.

"What do you think this is all about, Mulder?" 

"I don't know, but it isn't good.  This is too organized, too
professional.  I don't like it one damn bit."

I nodded in understanding.  If this were a group of political
zealots, where was the dogma?  Where were the dirty
capitalist accusations and the planeful of over-confident
minions dedicated to some psychotic tyrant?  This was no
ordinary hijacking--if such a thing were possible.

The plane coasted to a stop on a service runway at least a
half-mile from the terminal.  The brunette stewardess
opened the cockpit door and disappeared inside.

"What the hell's going on here?!"  The man who had stood
earlier got to his feet again and complained loudly.  "And
where the hell are we?"

His wife reached up to grab his arm, but he shrugged her
off.

Mulder checked the cockpit door, then stood himself.  "Sit
down," he said to the advancing man.

"Who hell are you?"  The man continued to make his way
up the aisle.

"I'm the fucking FBI.  Now go back to your seat and sit
down!" Mulder stepped out into the aisle, blocking the
man's progress.

"I demand to know what's going on here!"  The man pushed
a finger into Mulder's shoulder.

Suddenly,  the cockpit door opened and Mulder whirled
around.  The brunette emerged, but now she held an
automatic weapon in her hands.  I looked at her in utter
disbelief as she raised the gun and took aim on the two
other stewardesses sitting directly in front of her.

"Gun, Mulder!"  I screamed as I dove under the seats in
front of me, pulling my gun in the process.  It was a useless
gesture.  Seconds later I felt a crushing weight on top of me
and I knew without question it was Mulder.

Tortured shrieks tore through the re-circulated air of the
cabin.  Wedged into the tiny space at the foot of our seats,
all I could see was the face, or what was left of the face, of
the man who had been in the aisle with Mulder.  I didn't
have to see to know what was happening.  With sick
precision, automatic gunfire moved meticulously from the
front of the cabin down the aisle.   I cried out with a hoarse
wail as I felt three bullets slam into Mulder's body above
me.

"Shut up, Scully."  I felt Mulder's mouth move against my
ankle.  "Shut up and don't move."

I felt a sticky wetness soaking into my clothes.  Mulder's
blood.  "Oh, God Mulder."  I whispered.

"Shhhh."  Mulder hissed, and then his body became utterly,
terrifyingly still. 

The screams, that only moments before had been deafening,
faded.   My body jerked as three final gun shots rang
out--and then the cabin was filled with absolute silence.

Tears rolled unchecked down my cheeks.  Mulder--my
partner, my best friend in all this world and in any of his
Mulderesque worlds, for that matter--just shielded me with
his own body and let bullets rip through his flesh.  His
blood, his very life essence, oozed down my neck and mixed
with the tears soaking my face.  

Several minutes, or hours, I don't know which, ticked by in
death-filled silence.  I tried to remain calm, but finally I
couldn't stand it any longer.  "No!" I screamed and began to
violently struggle.  "Don't you die, dammit!"

It took a moment before I realized that the weight was
being lifted off me.  "Don't hurt him anymore.  Please!"  I
begged.

"Nobody's going to hurt me anymore, Scully.  I think they're
all dead."

It was Mulder who lifted himself off me, not some crazed
hijacker.  He helped me to my feet,  then nearly fell over
himself as he lost his balance.  

I put my arms around him to support him.  "You're shot. 
We've got to get help."

"I'll be okay.  They missed anything vital.  I got hit in the
thigh and the rear end.  I think both passed clean through. 
The last bullet grazed my head and splashed a ton of blood
around so I played dead."

I reached out and lifted his hair away to inspect the place
where a four inch gouge of skin was torn from his scalp. 
He was right, the head wound had bled profusely.  Although
no serious damage had been done, his face, shoulders, and
chest were covered with blood.  Still unable to accept the
fact that he was really alive, I moved my fingers from his
head and ran my hands down his body, checking for any
other injuries.

Mulder reached out, closing his hands over mine to stop
their frenzied search.  "I'm okay, Scully.  Honest.  We've got
to see if anyone needs our help."

I nodded, suddenly remembering there were at least fifty
other people on this plane.

"Can anyone hear me?"  I shouted.

"I can, Miss.  But I can't move,"  a voice from the back of
the plane called out.

"I can hear you."  Came another shout from the mid-section.

"So can I."

By the time the emergency crews arrived,  I found
thirty-nine people dead,  fourteen critically injured, and
three, like me, who escaped unharmed.  The brunette
stewardess, the pilot, and the co-pilot were all dead.  

Their wounds were self-inflicted.
     
  
  Continued in Part Three