Title: Renaissance de Mal
Author: Satchie
E-mail: satchie51@hotmail.com
Category: XF, MT
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Spoilers: Itty-bitty fleeting references
to "Pilot", "Quagmire", "Bad Blood" and "The X-
Files: Fight the
Future" scarcely worth mentioning (but I'll 
mention them anyway for a
cheap thrill).
Summary: Evil never dies; it merely changes form.
Feedback: I live for feedback...and chocolate.
Archive: Gossamer and Mulder-in-Jeopardy. All 
others please ask.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to pgfoxfan for the 
medical assistance,
and to Obfusc8er for the usual awesome beta, 
invaluable suggestions
and "encouragement."
Disclaimer: The X-Files universe belongs to Chris 
Carter, Ten-
Thirteen Productions and FOX. I'm merely 
borrowing them to get my ya-
yas out.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Under the cloak of night, two young men paused at 
the entrance of New
Orleans' St. Louis Cemetery #1. An eerie 
stillness hung over this
final resting place, interrupted only by an 
occasional humid Gulf
Coast breeze or song of chirping crickets. The 
taller man noisily
rummaged through an old K&B grocery sack. In 
contrast to the
otherwise quiet scene, the sound of crinkling 
paper was almost
deafening.

Immediately, his friend whispered a stern 
admonishment in his thick
Cajun accent. "Gilbert! You gonna wake da dead 
like dat!"

Chagrined by the sharp rebuke, Gilbert sheepishly 
shrugged his
shoulders. "Sorry 'bout dat, Mazoo." He retrieved 
the heavy Maglite
flashlight from the paper bag and gazed at the 
night sky. Gilbert
was grateful that the waxing gibbous moon would 
provide additional
illumination for his clandestine activity. His 
hand trembled as he
toggled the switch and pointed the light beam 
toward the
cemetery. "C'mon, let's do dis."

Mazoo vigorously shook his head. "Nah uh. Ah 
ain't goin' in dere
wit no dead people. Jes do wot Maw Maw LeBlanc 
say an' git outta
dere fast." He nervously peered through the iron 
fence and made the
sign of the cross. "'Memba, you gotta make teeree 
red Xs on Marie
Laveau's tomb to make da spell werk."

"Should Ah make dem wit blood?"

"Blood? Hell no, you fool! You wanna git yo'sef 
killed?" Mazoo
sighed impatiently. "Naw, blood conjure up bad 
spirits. Jes use da
red brick, Gil."

Steeling himself for his task, Gilbert simply 
nodded. He was
beginning to wonder if he should have just asked 
sweet Aimée to next
Saturday's fais do-do rather than invoke Marie 
Laveau's
intercession. His eyes drifted toward the 
entrance warning spelled
out in bold block letters, "Visitors are welcome 
but enter these
premises at their own risk. No security or guards 
are provided and
the New Orleans Archdiocesan disclaims 
responsibility for the
personal safety of visitors and their property." 
Despite his morbid
surroundings, Gilbert inwardly smiled. He 
couldn't very well expect
protection from the criminal elements while he 
defaced a local
shrine, albeit with good intentions. Gilbert 
wrapped his fingers
around the cool metal bars and effortlessly 
scaled the heavy iron
gate.

Once his friend was on the other side, Mazoo 
passed the faded purple
bag over the gate to eagerly awaiting hands. He 
stammered as he
glanced at the mausoleums. "Um...Ah-Ah-Ah...w-w-
wait for you here."

Gilbert swallowed convulsively and tightly 
cradled the bundle against
his chest. "Be rite back."

After taking several deep breaths to calm his 
nerves, the love-struck
man cautiously navigated the labyrinth of family 
crypts and honeycomb-
like wall vaults. Hauntingly beautiful angels of 
stone kept their
silent vigil over this ancient necropolis. Some 
wept over the dearly
departed, while others tenderly cradled figures 
of sleeping children
or folded their delicate hands in prayer. The 
presence of these
sculpted angelic sentinels comforted Gilbert as 
he made his way to
the center of the cemetery. When he reached the 
white tomb of the
revered voodoo priestess, his pulse quickened. 
Gilbert couldn't
shake the feeling that a malevolent presence had 
followed him. He
anxiously spun around, but was greeted only by 
shifting shadows and
shimmers of reflected light from a nearby 
limestone monument.

Quietly clearing his throat, Gilbert set the 
Maglite on the ground
and arranged three oranges into a triangle. 
"Marie, it's jes me,
Gilbert Doucet. Ah brung you an offerin'." He 
placed a white candle
in the center of the configuration, and propped 
the bouquet of fresh
flowers against the tomb. Warm, moist air brushed 
against the back
of his neck as he lit the scented candle. Gilbert 
dropped the BIC
lighter onto the pavement and shuddered. Part of 
him wanted to flee,
but his desire to nourish love outweighed his 
fear. He imagined
himself at Saturday's dance, waltzing with the 
flaxen-haired Aimée.
Emboldened by the pleasant vision, Gilbert 
concentrated on carrying
out his task.

He shakily picked up a fragment of red brick from 
a crumbing adjacent
crypt and scribbled three Xs on the stone tomb. 
Then Gilbert turned
around three times before knocking thrice at the 
base of the
monument. Summoning his courage, the would-be 
Romeo knelt before the
tomb as though it was an altar and addressed the 
mighty
priestess. "Booteeful Marie Laveau, love queen of 
N'Awlins. Ah ax
dat purty Aimée Marceaux will love me. Ah promise 
if she marry me,
we name our first baybee girl Marie, for you."

For a fleeting moment, Gilbert could have sworn 
he heard the patter
of feet behind him. He was tempted to investigate 
the strange noise,
but he was too afraid of offending the powerful 
priestess by
diverting his attention. Gilbert was familiar 
with the stories about
people who had instantly been struck dead when 
their courage faltered
or they did not demonstrate the proper respect 
during the ritual. If
only Marie would give him a sign that she had 
accepted his gifts and
granted his entreaty. Then he would know that he 
had found favor in
her sight, and could be assured that his love 
spell had worked.
Gilbert became increasingly uneasy as the sound 
of approaching
footsteps grew louder, and he tried to ignore the 
icy shiver that
reverberated throughout his spine. He recalled 
having experienced
the same sensation once before, when evil 
revealed itself during a
séance at Maw Maw LeBlanc's houseboat on the 
bayou. His mind raced.
Had he performed the ritual incorrectly and 
angered the ghost of
Marie Laveau? Or had he accidentally attracted 
the attention of a
sinister spirit?

Gilbert stuck the cigarette lighter in his pocket 
and picked up the
flashlight. He rose to his feet, sweeping the 
light beam back and
forth across the graveyard while he suspiciously 
surveyed his
surroundings. "Mazoo, dat you?" When no answer 
was forthcoming,
Gilbert tentatively started toward the entrance. 
"Mazoo, where
y'at?" The unearthly silence terrified him. 
Spurred by primal fear
and a grim premonition, Gilbert ran toward the 
place where Mazoo
promised to wait for him. The spine-tingling 
sensation returned with
a vengeance, intensifying with each frantic step. 
As Gilbert neared
his destination, a sense of dread weighed heavily 
upon his soul.
Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

He could scarcely bring himself to look past the 
gate. Gilbert
furtively glanced through the iron bars, and was 
momentarily
reassured when he spotted Mazoo's familiar high-
top sneakers. But
Gilbert's relief quickly changed to panic when he 
realized his
friend's lifeless body was lying on the pavement. 
Mazoo's eyes were
wide open, and his grotesque expression spoke of 
an unfathomable
horror. Gilbert gasped when he saw the gaping 
hole in the middle of
Mazoo's chest, and the two large black dogs 
greedily licking the
blood that had pooled around his body. Slumping 
against the imposing
gate, Gilbert cried out in a tremulous voice. "O 
mon Dieu! Please
help me!"

Another canine quietly emerged from the shadows 
of the tombs. Its
shaggy fur seemed to stand on end, and its long 
bushy tail swayed
back and forth in a hypnotic motion. Suddenly, 
the piercing coal
black eyes were transformed into glowing red 
orbs, reflecting the
fiery depths of hell. Before Gilbert could react, 
the ghastly beast
lunged at him. The searing sharp pains that 
ripped through his chest
stole Gilbert's breath away, rendering him unable 
to scream. Then he
mercifully passed into oblivion.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Alone in the elevator, Scully pressed the button 
to the basement in a
precise staccato rhythm. She was supposed to have 
met Mulder for
lunch more than two hours ago, but fate had 
maliciously conspired
against her. In a morning that exemplified 
Murphy's Law, Scully had
endured one disaster after another. The last 
straw had been when she
arrived at Quantico, only to discover that the 
Baltimore medical
examiner's office had forgotten to ship the body 
she was scheduled to
autopsy. After reaming the responsible party a 
new bodily orifice,
Scully decided it would be more efficient to 
drive to Baltimore than
wait for the body to be transferred to the FBI's 
facilities. Of
course, she hadn't counted on getting stuck in a 
horrific traffic jam
on the way back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. 
Exhausted, frazzled
and starving, Scully yearned for the sanctuary of 
the X-Files office.

Finally, the doors swooshed open and Scully 
hurriedly strode past the
rows of boxes that lined the hall. Her stomach 
growled loudly in
protest of her neglect, so it was not surprising 
that she was
starting to experience olfactory hallucinations. 
She could have
sworn she detected the tantalizing aroma of Mid-
Eastern spices
wafting from the domain of the self-proclaimed 
FBI's most unwanted.

Mulder grinned when she opened the door to his 
sanctum
sanctorum. "Hey, Scully. I thought you had 
forgotten about me."

She shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. It's been 
one of those days.
I would have called you from the car, but on top 
of everything else,
I forgot to recharge my cell phone."

"So how did the autopsy go?"

Scully unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smile. 
Her partner could
be so predictable. When he was totally focused, 
Mulder tended to
forget the niceties of conversation. Succinct and 
to the point, it
was simply his style. Removing her mud-splattered 
trench coat,
Scully delivered her report.

"I hate to disappoint you, but Mr. Brogden was 
not a werewolf who
died of supernatural causes. He had a history of 
severe mental
illness, and was taking Parnate, a powerful type 
of antidepressant
known as an MAO inhibitor. Unfortunately, this 
particular drug is
highly susceptible to food and medication 
interactions. Mr. Brogden
developed a persistent non-productive cough about 
a week ago, and a
well-meaning friend gave him an over-the-counter 
remedy containing
dextromethorphan. After he ingested the cough 
syrup, significantly
more than the recommended therapeutic dosage I 
might add, the drug
interaction exacerbated a pre-existing psychotic 
episode.
Subsequently, a very naked and very hairy Mr. 
Brogden exhibited the
so-called werewolf-like behavior reported to the 
Baltimore
authorities. In a nutshell, he died of serotonin 
syndrome with
associated cardiovascular failure triggered by 
the dextromethorphan.
If he was indeed cursed, it was from mental 
illness and excessive
body hair."

Surprisingly, Mulder accepted the findings 
without question. His
face was curiously impassive as he chewed on his 
thumbnail.

"Mulder, are you okay?"

"Huh? Yeah. I was just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," she teased. A large 
colorful bag beside his
desk caught her attention, and her eyes widened 
as she read the name
of the restaurant emblazoned in Arabic style 
letters. "Alhambra?"
So she *hadn't* imagined the heavenly smell. Like 
a child
discovering an early Christmas present, Scully 
enthusiastically
delved into the sack. "What did you get me?"

Mulder attempted to appear nonchalant. "Your 
favorite, their
vegetarian platter. If you're really feeling 
decadent, there's even
baklava for dessert."

She happily picked up the first container, but 
Mulder stopped
her. "Um, that's mine. Lamb and chicken kabobs. 
You know, for meat-
eating heathens like me."

Scully laughed as she passed the box to him. "I 
hate to be the
bearer of sad tidings, but Mid-Eastern food is 
very healthy. Even
meat dishes."

He recoiled in mock horror. "Noooooooooo! Someone 
should tell them
about the merits of deep frying food in gobs of 
batter."

Retrieving the tall Styrofoam cups of iced tea 
from the bag, Scully
suddenly became suspicious. "What did you do?"

Mulder blinked too innocently. "What do you 
mean?"

"Good grief, Mulder! This must have cost a 
fortune. What did you
do? I have a sneaking suspicion you're trying to 
buy my forgiveness."

He splayed his hand across his chest and tried to 
adopt an aura of
indignation. "Scully, you wound me!"

"Mulderrrrrrrrrr!"

"I haven't done anything. Yet." Mulder picked up 
the remote control
to the slide projector and dimmed the room 
lights. "Scully, have you
ever been to the Big Easy? The Birthplace of 
Jazz?"

Her plastic fork poised over the fattoush salad, 
Scully
groaned. "Some men provide romantic candlelight 
dinners. I get
slide shows of cattle mutilations and alleged 
paranormal evidence."

Pretending to overlook her playful sarcastic 
remark, Mulder displayed
the first slide and proceeded with his 
presentation. "Check this
out, Scully. Over the past two weeks, seven men 
have been slain in
or near New Orleans' St. Louis Cemetery #1. In 
each case, the heart
was brutally ripped from the chest while the 
victim was still alive."

"Satanic cult sacrifices?"

"Not unless your cultists have sharp little 
teeth." He advanced to
the next slide that showed a close-up of a 
mutilated thoracic
cavity. "According to the medical examiner, the 
tissue and vascular
damage appears to have been caused by a canine-
like animal.
Interestingly, the creature shows a definite 
preference for Creole,
and I don't mean 'Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a 
file gumbo.' All
of the victims have been young Cajun men, ranging 
in age from
seventeen to twenty-four." Clutching the remote 
control, Mulder
displayed grisly crime scene photographs in rapid
succession. "Michael 'Mazoo' Guidry, Gilbert 
Doucet, Peter LeJeune,
Stephen 'Boo' Robichaux, Doug 'T' Broussard, Paul 
Trahan and
William 'Peekon' Kershaw."

Setting her fork aside, Scully studied the 
pictures. "I noticed you
said creature. I presume that means you've 
determined this isn't a
matter for law enforcement or animal control 
personnel?"

Mulder nodded. "Unofficially, some residents have 
admitted to seeing
an unusual phenomenon near the cemetery during 
the time span of the
murders. Three huge black dogs with glowing red 
eyes seem to
materialize out of thin air, and disappear into a 
puff of smoke. I
believe what we're dealing with are Cerberian 
demon dogs, except in
this case, at least one of them has higher 
ambitions. Legend states
that by devouring nine human hearts within 
eighteen days of a major
satanic celebration, a Cerberian can escape the 
control of his
demonic master and become a mortal man. The next 
significant holiday
is Lammas, the first of the three harvest 
festivals. That's August
1st, four days from now."

Scully stared at him incredulously. "Whoa, whoa! 
Let me get this
straight. A devilish dog gets fed up with serving 
his lord of
darkness and wants to assume human form so he can 
drive to a nine-to-
five job in his gas-guzzling SUV, pay taxes, move 
out to the suburbs,
take on a thirty-year mortgage, get married, have 
the average 2.5
kids and pay for their orthodontia bills and 
college tuition. And
all he needs to do to attain this domestic bliss 
is to rip out two
more hearts and scarf them down by Tuesday. Did I 
miss anything?"

He stuck his lower lip out in an exaggerated 
motion, displaying his
most impressive pout. "Why do these things always 
sound like crap
when you say them?"

Unfazed by her partner's endearing expression, 
Scully continued her
interrogation. "Aside from folklore, what makes 
you so sure there
are going to be nine victims?"

"Simple satanic numerology, Scully. Contrary to 
popular belief,
thirteen does not hold any special significance 
within the occult.
Nine is the most powerful number. First of all, 
Satanists like to
invert numbers and symbols. If you turn the 
number nine upside down
and repeat it three times, it gives you the 
number of the Beast,
666. Nine is also considered a perfect trinity. 
Three times three
equals nine. It represents perfection, balance 
and order. Think
about it, there are nine planets in our solar 
system, nine bio-
systems in the human body and a nine-month 
gestational period. We
say a cat has nine lives, or a person has gone 
the whole nine yards
or is on cloud nine to indicate the maximum level 
of possibilities or
attainment. Even America's most perfect sport, 
baseball, has nine
innings."

"So where does the number eighteen come from?"

Mulder laced his fingers behind his head and 
leaned back in his
chair. "Two signifies defiance and rejection of 
servility. Two
times nine..."

"Great. So we have a demonic dog that can 
multiply as well as
kill." Scully took a long swig of her iced tea 
while she pondered
her partner's comments. "Mulder, did you ever 
consider the
possibility that these witnesses didn't see what 
they thought they
saw? Is it remotely plausible they drank too many 
Hurricanes at Pat
O'Brien's? Do you know how much rum they put in 
those things? Hell,
after knocking back a few, I'd probably see 
little green men."

Mulder sadly shook his head. "How often do I have 
to tell you,
Scully? They're *gray*!"

"All I'm saying is that New Orleans has a 
certain...preoccupation
with the occult. We're talking about a city where 
voodoo is
considered a recognized religion and haunted 
house and cemetery tours
are a major tourist attraction...an environment 
that inspired Anne
Rice to create the character Lestat and pen *The 
Vampire
Chronicles*. I just think you need to put this in 
perspective."

Reaching into his desk, Mulder retrieved an 
envelope. "You need to
hurry and finish your lunch. We have a flight to 
catch in less than
three hours. Here's your ticket."

Her jaw dropped open in stunned disbelief. She 
wasn't sure which was
worse, him ditching her, or dragging her halfway 
across the country
on a moment's notice. While she contemplated that 
question, Mulder
slung his suit coat over his shoulder and sang a 
few bars of some
ridiculous song as he breezed through the 
doorway.

*Dress in style and go hog wild, me oh my oh. Son 
of a gun, we'll
have big fun on the bayou.*

Big fun. Riiiiight.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

An exasperated Scully arched her back as she 
glanced at her
watch...again. It was only one o'clock in the 
morning, and their
nocturnal stakeout of New Orleans' oldest 
cemetery was less than
productive. At least the torrential rain had 
slackened to an
annoying drizzle. Since the near constant barrage 
of thunder no
longer kept interrupting their conversation, 
Mulder felt compelled to
initiate an exchange.

He casually flicked an errant sunflower seed 
shell onto the
floorboard of the rental car. Turning toward his 
partner, Mulder
lecherously wagged his eyebrows. "Hey, Scully. 
Tomorrow, do you
want me to teach you how to pinch tail and suck 
head?"

"What?!"

"Crawfish. You know, sample the local cuisine?"

Scully blushed at her erroneous assumption. 
"Oh...food. I knew
that."

He grinned as he relished her discomfort. 
"Crawfish consumption
requires a proper technique. I wouldn't want you 
to embarrass
yourself in front of the native Louisianans."

She pointed toward the object of their 
surveillance. "Somehow, I
think these particular residents are past the 
point of caring about
my dining habits."

Mulder wistfully gazed at the elaborate statues 
and monuments
towering above the cemetery walls. "Scully, did 
you ever wonder how
the custom of above ground burials began here in 
New Orleans? How
these unique cities of the dead came to be?"

"No, I can't say I've lost any sleep over it." 
Scully unsuccessfully
tried to stifle a yawn. "Well, at least until 
tonight, anyway."

Brushing another stray shell from his pants, 
Mulder launched into his
impromptu lecture. "Early settlers soon 
discovered that underground
burial was virtually impossible. Because of the 
high water table and
swampy soil, graves were necessarily shallow. 
Unfortunately, the
wooden caskets would pop out of the ground during 
frequent heavy
rains and float down the street in a macabre 
procession. It just
goes to show you that you can't keep a good man 
down."

Scully ignored the double entendre and looked out 
the window. "I
can't believe we're stalking a New Orleans 
landmark for Cujo."

"Sculleeeee! Cujo was a fictional Saint Bernard 
infected by a brain-
destroying virus that made it go berserk. We're 
looking for a
Cerberian demon dog. Apples and oranges." Without 
warning, Mulder's
body tensed as he unlatched the door handle. 
"Scully, did you see
that? The red glowing eyes?"

Mulder was already out of the car and in pursuit 
of their quarry
before she had a chance to answer. He stumbled 
momentarily when his
right foot slid out from under him, but he 
quickly recovered his
equilibrium and resumed the chase. Scully 
immediately understood the
problem as soon as she stepped onto the pavement. 
Several mounds of
overturned earth from a landscaping project had 
been partially washed
onto the street by the heavy rain, coating the 
surfaces outside the
cemetery walls with a thin layer of slippery mud. 
She silently
cursed herself for her choice of footwear. 
Keeping pace with her
long-legged partner was challenging under the 
best of circumstances.
Scully knew that even with her sensible low-
heeled pumps, she was
going to be sliding all over the place. Uttering 
an impressive array
of profanities worthy of a Navy captain's 
daughter, she ran after her
partner.

With a grace that belied its massive muscular 
frame, the creature
sprinted toward the intersection. However, as 
Mulder raced after it,
the animal inexplicably turned around to face its 
adversary. Mulder
was startled by the unexpected development, and 
scrambled to adjust
his course. Shifting his weight to his right leg, 
Mulder pivoted
sharply to slow his forward momentum and approach 
the beastly canine
from another angle. In the process, his right 
foot slid into a large
pothole, seriously compromising his tenuous sense 
of balance. He
locked his knee in a feeble attempt to keep from 
falling, but gravity
refused to cooperate with his misguided plan. His 
body twisted
sideways during the awkward descent to terra 
firma, causing an
audible pop to register in Mulder's ears before 
he became aware of
the excruciating agony in his knee. He gasped in 
pain, and abruptly
crumpled to the wet pavement. While fighting to 
quell the rising
nausea, he realized he had dropped his gun when 
he hit the asphalt.
Mulder blindly groped for his service weapon in 
the moonless night,
and breathed a sigh of relief when his hand alit 
upon the cool
stainless steel of the Smith & Wesson. Slightly 
dazed from the fall,
Mulder aimed the firearm in the direction of the 
last known location
of the unearthly canine as he scanned his 
surroundings. A pair of
luminescent eyes appeared to taunt him, and then 
the dark silhouette
mysteriously vanished into the rainy mist.

Scully rushed to her partner's side, skidding to 
an inelegant halt
before kneeling beside him. "Mulder, what 
happened?"

Panting from the pain, Mulder stared into the now 
empty air. "Did
you see it, Scully?"

"See what?"

"The demon dog."

She pushed his pants leg over the injured joint 
and palpated the
affected area. "No, the only thing I saw was you 
coasting down the
street like it was a giant Slip 'N Slide."

"Shit, Scully!" Mulder winced and reflexively 
tried to pull away
from her probing fingers.

"Did you feel it pop?"

"Yeah. It felt really weird. Sort of like my knee 
slid sideways out
of joint for a minute."

Scully glanced back at the abandoned vehicle. 
"Don't move. I'll
bring the car over here and get you situated. 
Then we'll go to the
emergency room."

Mulder gingerly flexed his limb. "Nah. I think 
it's okay. I just
need to work out the kinks. Probably twisted it 
funny or something."

"Uh huh. It's the 'or something' that worries me. 
Do you think you
can stay out of trouble for a few seconds while I 
get the car?"

"C'mon, Scully! I'm crippled, a prime candidate 
for a peg leg. How
much trouble could I possibly get into?"

"Knowing you? A lot. I have two words for you, 
Mulder. Past
experience." Fishing the keys out of her pocket, 
Scully stood up and
carefully walked back to the rented Pontiac Grand 
Am, the muffled
sound of her partner's grumblings echoing in her 
ears.

Mulder rolled his eyes at his partner's remarks 
and his frustration
over his misfortune. In the periphery of his 
vision, he caught a
glimpse of activity atop a nearby building. He 
hastily trained his
gun and flashlight on the roof, and detected 
three indistinct forms.
Pushing himself up from the wet asphalt, Mulder 
quickly assessed his
options. If he climbed onto the old-style 
stainless steel trashcan
against the wall, he could conceivably pull 
himself onto the veranda
near the staircase that connected the second and 
third stories. Then
when the stairs played out, he could scale the 
ornamental ironwork to
reach the roof. Mulder tentatively shifted his 
weight to his right
leg and hissed. His knee hurt like hell, but 
hopefully adrenaline
would kick in any minute and numb the pain. That 
sounded good in
theory, anyway. Favoring his left leg, he half 
limped, half ran
toward the Colonial-style building.

Scully was halfway to her destination when she 
heard the unmistakable
sound of uneven footsteps behind her. 
Intuitively, she knew what had
happened before she even turned around. "Damn it, 
Mulder!" She
clenched her fists as she watched Mulder head 
toward some unknown
destination. In his single-minded pursuit of the 
alleged demon dogs,
he was going to further injure himself. Scully 
knew he was going to
be in a world of hurt when he finally collapsed, 
so she decided to
follow through with her original plan and drive 
the car to meet up
with her wayward partner.

By the time Mulder hobbled to the white brick 
structure, an unholy
trio of menacing canines stood at the edge of the 
roof as if waiting
for him. He crawled onto the trashcan, then 
grabbed the sturdy iron
bars above him and struggled to pull himself onto 
the veranda.
Mulder had neglected to factor his injured knee 
into the equation,
and he yelled in pain as he used his right foot 
as leverage to push
himself over the railing. A transient flurry of 
spots obscured his
vision, and once again, Mulder fought back the 
bitter taste of bile.
At least the ungainly maneuver had served its 
purpose, and he now
stood at the base of the staircase. After 
climbing a couple of
steps, Mulder realized the folly of his plan. The 
task required
bending his sore knee. What had he been thinking? 
And why hadn't
the adrenaline kicked in yet?

He held onto the staircase railing and dragged 
himself up the
seemingly insurmountable concrete steps. 
Curiously, the husky
atramentous canines didn't attack as he 
laboriously ascended the
stairs. They appeared to be content to wait while 
their pursuer
closed in, a behavior that Mulder found extremely 
unnerving. On the
one hand, his life's work was dedicated to 
seeking the elusive truth
and evidence of the paranormal. Here was proof 
positive within his
grasp. Yet, this was too easy. Was the fate of 
the seven young
Cajun men soon to await him? And what did he 
propose to do if he
managed to catch the ghoulish hounds? Whip out 
six pairs of
handcuffs and read all three dogs their Miranda 
rights? Mulder was
embarrassed that he hadn't thought that far in 
advance. Then again,
did he ever?

Deciding he'd worry about that little detail 
later, Mulder gritted
his teeth and continued his arduous journey. 
Fortunately, the
staircase was relatively narrow, and Mulder was 
able to support most
of his weight with his arms. When he reached the 
third story
veranda, he paused to catch his breath. He barely 
suppressed a
shudder when the demonic canines leaned forward 
in rapt attention.

His fingers wrapped around the curlicued 
metalwork, Mulder stuck a
wingtip-clad foot in the decorative wrought iron 
and cautiously
scaled the makeshift ladder. The roof was 
tantalizingly close when
he heard a loud growling noise behind him. One of 
the smaller dogs
now stood behind him and the stairs, barring that 
avenue of retreat.
Mulder automatically glanced back at the roof, 
and was greeted by two
sets of effulgent ruby orbs. While he wondered 
how the third canine
had magically changed places within the blink of 
an eye, the animal
lunged at him, sinking its razor-sharp teeth into 
his right calf.
Startled by the attack, Mulder was unable to 
maintain his grip on the
smooth, rain-coated metal. His left foot slipped 
through a large
space of the ornamental iron when his hands lost 
contact with the
slick surface, entrapping the lower extremity as 
his body rotated
downward and sideways. A primal, guttural scream 
tore from his
throat as he felt the bones in his ankle and leg 
twist and snap. The
blood rushed to his head, and he desperately 
wanted to pass out and
fade into a blissful oblivion, but the snarling 
beast wouldn't permit
him that luxury. Helplessly dangling upside down, 
Mulder furiously
pounded on the animal's snout. Every tendon and 
ligament in his
lower left leg felt like it was on fire, 
mercilessly being stretched
and torn beyond their limits. With one last 
forceful tug, Mulder
dislodged his foot from his shoe, freeing his 
injured limb before he
fell to the unyielding stony surface below.

The accursed canine allowed no respite, and 
immediately recommenced
his vicious assault. In his haste to escape his 
predator, Mulder
frantically stumbled toward the staircase. He had 
managed to limp to
the second step when the beast surged forth and 
struck him squarely
in the back. Unable to offset the unexpected 
momentum, Mulder
pitched forward, smashing his left kneecap on the 
concrete before he
tumbled down the rest of the stairs. Mulder 
groaned in agony as he
fought to remain conscious.

Intoxicated by the scent of fear, the animal 
eagerly pounced on his
vulnerable prey. Gruesome images of the seven 
mutilated corpses
flashed through Mulder's mind, and he 
instinctively crossed his arms
against his chest to guard his pounding heart. 
His unearthly
assailant was incensed by the attempt at self-
preservation. Its
luminous red eyes flared with anger. In a blind 
frenzy, the animal
sunk its teeth into the flesh and bone that 
impeded access to its
victim's chest. An explosive pain ripped through 
Mulder's right
forearm, rendering the limb paralyzed and 
useless. Mulder knew he
couldn't possibly defend himself much longer 
against the determined
beast. He rolled onto his side and picked up the 
first thing within
his reach. Then he whacked the dog's nose with a 
terra cotta pot,
diverting its attention for a few precious 
seconds. With near
superhuman strength, Mulder crawled to the edge 
of the second story
veranda and grasped the metal railing. He pulled 
his battered body
into a standing position and quickly evaluated 
his options. At this
point, the trashcan seemed impossibly far away 
and unstable. How was
he going to get back down, especially in his 
present condition?

Scully's distressed voice interrupted his 
thoughts. To his horror,
all three hellish hounds were now on the ground, 
and rapidly closing
in on his partner. Mulder knew he had to act 
immediately to protect
her, or at least provide a distraction so that 
she could escape.
Disregarding his multiple injuries, he called out 
to Scully as he
leapt over the balcony. He was so preoccupied 
with her safety that
he didn't think to try to control the direction 
of his fall. His
right shin slammed against a marble bench before 
he struck the
ground. Mulder screamed as the bones shattered, 
the broken ends
pushing through muscle and skin. Warm, slick 
blood gushed from the
open wound, mingling with a puddle of muddy 
rainwater onto the
cobbled walkway. Scully was anxious to get to 
Mulder's side, but the
canines still had her cornered. She aimed her 
service weapon at the
dogs and fired several rounds. To her profound 
disappointment, none
of the shots killed or disabled the dogs. In 
fact, they didn't even
flinch. Her heart sank as the desperation of 
their situation became
glaringly apparent. Were she and Mulder destined 
to be the last two
victims?

Sensing her mounting terror, the dogs brazenly 
advanced on the FBI
agents. The largest beast excitedly paced back 
and forth, his red
eyes fixated on Mulder's unmoving body. Just as 
he was about to
charge at his prey, a high-pitched shout pierced 
the night air.

Keeping her weapon aimed at the animals, Scully 
turned toward the
noise. A mysterious woman clad in a brightly 
colored caftan and
knotted turban suddenly appeared. Her regal 
bearing and
authoritative voice comforted Scully. Although 
the newcomer's French
words were unfamiliar to her, Scully understood 
that the woman was
trying to intervene on their behalf. The unusual 
amulet around the
stranger's neck appeared to frighten the animals 
into backing off.
When the petite woman raised her hands and began 
murmuring an
incantation, the canines meekly slinked away and 
disappeared into a
wisp of smoke.

Scully immediately knelt beside Mulder's semi-
conscious form and
began assessing his condition. "Mulder? Can you 
hear me?"

His eyelids fluttered open. "Scully? You okay?" 
He tried to lift
his arm, but the attempt was quickly thwarted.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't move. I need to make sure 
you don't have any
spinal injuries." Scully's countenance was grim 
as she performed her
examination. The jagged leg wound was bleeding 
profusely. She
retrieved her cell phone, and punched the all too 
familiar three-
digit number. Holding the phone with one hand 
while she rattled off
her badge number and location to the 911 
operator, she awkwardly
removed her coat and pressed it against the wound 
in a feeble attempt
to staunch the massive flow of blood.

The elderly black woman gathered the folds of her 
flowing caftan and
knelt down beside Mulder. Brushing his bangs from 
his forehead, the
woman murmured reassuring phrases in a lilting 
cadence. "You gonna
be awrite. Dem ol' devil dogs be gone."

Mulder stirred at the woman's touch. "Devil dogs? 
Gone?"

"Shhhhh. Don't fret yo'self. You doin' bien. 
Tante Simone gonna
sit wit you a spell 'til da amb'lance git here. 
You gonna be jes
fine. Dem doctors up da road gonna fix you up 
real nice."

"But the dogs..."

"Hush, mon cher." Tante Simone massaged his 
forehead in a soothing
motion. "Ah gonna keep you safe from da dark 
spirits, make a special
gris-gris jes fo' you."

Mulder grimaced as another wave of pain washed 
over him. "Where's
Scully?"

Putting the cell phone away, Scully caressed his 
uninjured
hand. "I'm right here, Mulder. The paramedics 
will be here in a
minute."

"Hurts," he whimpered.

She blinked back an unshed tear. "I know."

While Tante Simone stroked his throbbing temples, 
she sang something
that almost sounded like a lullaby, an eclectic 
blend of French verse
and an African chant. Her voice was rich as the 
Mississippi Delta,
and the effect of the rhythmic music was 
mesmerizing. Mulder visibly
relaxed, allowing himself to be carried away by 
the soulful tune.
Then he weakly smiled at Scully before the 
blackness swirled up to
claim him.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

"Dr. Scully?" When the sleeping agent didn't 
respond, the scrub-suit
attired man gently shook her shoulder. "Dr. 
Scully?"

Scully's eyes snapped open at the intrusion upon 
her restless
slumber, but seconds ticked by before she could 
brush aside the
cobwebs of sleep and identify the physician. Once 
recognition
dawned, she immediately rose from the 
uncomfortable waiting room
chair in preparation for the long-awaited status 
report. "Dr.
Mouton, how is Mulder?"

The exhausted orthopedic surgeon stuffed his 
hands into the pockets
of his lab coat. "He's still in critical 
condition. The surgery was
far more extensive than we anticipated. In 
addition to the
hypovolemic shock and resultant cardiac 
arrhythmia, significant
vascular damage and nerve entrapment provided 
several challenging
complications. As you know, the compound 
fractures of the right
tibia and fibula were the most problematic 
injuries. After reducing
the fractures, we stabilized the bones with 
plates and screws. There
was a lot of debris in the wound, so he's 
obviously at risk for
developing a wicked infection. We've already 
started him on an
aggressive course of prophylactic IV antibiotics. 
Surgical repair of
the torn ACL will have to be deferred until a 
later date. On the
left side, Mr. Mulder suffered severe 
displacement fractures of the
patella, as well as fractures of the tibia, 
fibula and ankle. After
we wired the kneecap together, reset the other 
bones and repaired the
damaged tendons and ligaments, the leg was casted 
from about mid-
thigh to his toes. We also debrided and sutured 
the bite wounds on
his leg and forearm." Dr. Mouton hesitantly posed 
his
question. "Have the dogs been caught yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of." She dejectedly stared at 
the floor. "When
will you have to start him on the rabies 
immunoglobulin and vaccine?"

Dr. Mouton tiredly rubbed the back of his neck. 
"Considering all
he's been through, I'd like to give him a break, 
no pun intended.
Maybe another or day or two. He'll be in recovery 
for about another
hour before we move him upstairs."

"I *need* to see him."

"Of course." The lanky physician escorted Scully 
to her partner's
side. Mulder's peaceful expression was wholly 
incongruent with his
traumatized body. She clasped Mulder's unbandaged 
hand between hers
as she studied the monitors. A strange splash of 
color caught her
attention, and her gaze drifted toward a red 
flannel bag affixed to
the IV pole. "What is that?"

The orthopedic surgeon removed the peculiar item 
and examined it
closely. "It's a gris-gris bag. Mr. Mulder has 
made a fiercely
protective friend." He pointed to the embroidered 
three-petaled
flower. "See? A golden fleur-de-lis. That's the 
favorite symbol of
Simone Dubois, a well-known voodoo priestess from 
the French Quarter."

"Simone...when Mulder was injured, there was an 
elderly woman who
stayed with us until the paramedics arrived. She 
said something
about making a gris-gris for him."

He smiled knowingly. "Some of my patients and 
relatives swear by her
powers. She's a harmless soul, mostly just wants 
to help people with
their day-to-day problems. About ten years ago, 
her daughter and son-
in-law dismissed her recurrent prescient dreams 
as the foolishness of
an old superstitious woman. They were bludgeoned 
to death shortly
after moving into a home that was supposedly 
haunted. Ever since
then, Tante Simone has felt personally 
responsible for protecting
others from evil. Hence, the charm."

Scully suspiciously scrutinized the small bundle. 
"What's in it?"

"Herbs, oils, stones...you name it. Most people 
buy them to improve
their love life or finances, or to protect them 
from harm. Believe
it or not, New Orleans police officers used to 
routinely carry them
as additional 'insurance.' It's not uncommon for 
patients or family
members to bring them to the hospital. As far as 
I'm concerned, as
long as their practices don't post a health 
threat or interfere with
hospital routine, I look the other way."

"You condone these activities?"

"There's a saying here that just because a person 
doesn't believe,
doesn't mean he doesn't *not* believe." Amused by 
her puzzled
reaction, Dr. Mouton hastened to explain. "Modern 
medicine has only
recently begun to understand the mind/body 
connection. Studies have
shown that patients who have a strong faith in 
things beyond
traditional medicine tend to have more favorable 
outcomes." He
absently fingered the flannel bag. "Is Mr. Mulder 
receptive to such
ideas?"

She snorted. "You'd be surprised what he 
believes."

A nurse apologetically approached them. "Excuse 
me. Dr. Scully?
Someone asked that this be delivered to you as 
soon as possible."

Scully opened the mysterious manila envelope, and 
frowned when she
scanned the circled item from the latest edition 
of the *The Times-
Picayune*. Two men had been viciously mauled 
during the early
morning hours. Although the newspaper article 
didn't elaborate upon
the details, Scully knew how they had died as 
soon as she read the
identifying information. Neil Thibodeaux and Roy 
Fontenot were both
in their early twenties, and both had Cajun 
surnames.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Thoroughly depressed, Mulder slumped against his 
pillows. Scully had
waited to tell him about the most recent killings 
until his fever had
subsided and the morphine-induced haze had begun 
to clear. Although
he understood that she had his best interests at 
heart, the news came
as a devastating blow. Mulder had spent the past 
hour ruminating
over the newspaper clippings. They hardly 
captured the tragedy of so
many young men savagely slain by the 
preternatural creature. He
scoffed at the official explanation that stray 
Rottweilers were
responsible for the "unfortunate accidents." The 
New Orleans SPCA
caught a pack of dogs near the crime scene soon 
after the bodies of
Neil Thibodeaux and Roy Fontenot were found. 
Parish authorities
therefore concluded that the animals were the 
source of the recent
attacks, and immediately had them put down in 
order to protect the
public. How convenient. Case closed. In spite of 
the reporters'
numerous erroneous assumptions, there was one 
point with which Mulder
could agree. The killings had finally ended. For 
now.

Turning toward the window, Mulder berated 
himself. "This is my
fault. I was supposed to prevent this from 
happening. If I hadn't
been so careless..."

Scully intertwined her fingers with his. "Mulder, 
there was nothing
you could have done. Even if you hadn't been 
injured, we would have
been waiting in the wrong place. The last two 
victims were murdered
on their way home from a friend's house, not 
within the immediate
vicinity of the cemetery."

"But at least I could have identified the killer 
then. Now that he
has achieved his goal of devouring nine human 
hearts, he's changed
form. But he will definitely kill again, 
regardless of his good
intentions. His demonic masters created him to 
have an insatiable
lust for blood. A physical metamorphosis cannot 
provide redemption.
It's merely a renaissance de mal, Scully. A 
rebirth of evil. We
could run into this transformed being anywhere, 
and not even know it."

Aware of his darkening mood, Scully slyly 
grinned. "I don't know
about that, Mulder. I suppose if a man used to be 
a dog, there would
be certain residual characteristics and 
behaviors. Perhaps we could
ask the New Orleans Police Department to put out 
an APB on men who go
around relieving themselves on fire hydrants."

Mulder chuckled at the mental image invoked by 
her humorous
remark. "Scully, that could describe most guys 
who occasionally
overindulge in their favorite alcoholic 
beverages. Fire hydrants,
brick walls, movie posters...you name it."

A soft knock at the door interrupted their 
conversation, and a tall
olive-skinned man appeared with a tray. "Mr. 
Mulder? I'm terribly
sorry about the delay. I'm afraid when your 
doctor changed your
dietary order, your evening meal got lost in the 
shuffle."

Scully immediately removed her laptop computer 
and handwritten field
notes from the bedside table while she addressed 
the handsome new
arrival. "I don't remember seeing you before. Do 
you usually work a
different shift or on a different unit?"

The orderly smiled enigmatically as he walked 
across the room.
Despite his bulky muscular frame, he moved with 
an almost animal-like
grace. "No. I'm brand new. My name is René." 
Setting the tray on
the newly cleared space, he lowered the side rail 
before swinging the
table over the bed.

Mulder wrinkled his nose in anticipation of a 
typical bland hospital
meal. "I don't know why Dr. Mouton bothered to 
change the order from
a liquid to a regular diet anyway. I'm convinced 
there are certain
universal invariants, like time and bad hospital 
food."

"You might be pleasantly surprised." With a grand 
sweeping gesture,
René lifted the lid of the hot plate to reveal a 
scorched looking
piece of fish lying on a bed of rice.

"It's burnt to a crisp," Mulder whined.

"Au contraire! Haven't you ever had Blackened 
Redfish? It's a New
Orleans specialty!"

Scully nodded. "I've heard of it before." She 
picked up the lemon
wedge and lightly squeezed it over the charred 
fish. "C'mon,
Mulder. You need to eat to regain your strength. 
Chasing mutants is
hard work."

Reluctantly, Mulder picked up his fork. "I still 
think it looks
burnt."

René laughed. "I'm sure you'll like it. It's 
wonderful." There was
a disconcerting familiar gleam in the orderly's 
piercing coal black
eyes. Running his fingers through his thick sable 
hair, René
remarked in a chilling tone, "Then again, I've 
always had a weakness
for the taste of Creole."


finis


Song lyrics quoted from: "Jambalaya," written by 
Hank Williams

Other quotes:
Warning posted at entrance to St. Louis Cemetery 
#1


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Satchie's Scribbles - X-Files and Emergency! Fan 
Fiction
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