Skin : the X-files (24 page)

Mulder quietly slid along the back of the hall, his eyes adjusting to the strange lighting. Huge stained-glass windows on either side cast rainbows across the wooden pews, revealing dark gashes where the benches had been randomly torn out from the floor. Near the front of the room, Mulder saw a tangle of wood that used to be the support beams of a stage. Rising up from somewhere near the center of the tangle was a row of rusted organ pipes, dented and twisted by age and the warm, moist air.

The hall seemed deserted; Mulder moved forward carefully, trying to keep track of the floor in front of his feet. As with the clinic, the floor was made of cement, 241

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though it looked as though there had once been carpeting; tufts of moldy green padding speckled the aisle between the pews.

Mulder had nearly reached the destroyed stage when his gaze settled on a pair of thick, forest green curtains hanging down along the back wall. Between the curtains was a door, attached at a disturbed angle by a single warped hinge. There was easily enough room between the door and the frame for someone to slip through.

Mulder hurried his pace, his gun trained on the dark opening. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, and his knees burned from the controlled crouch.

He reached the curtains and kneeled next to the broken door. The room on the other side looked small, dimly lit by a single, painted window. It seemed deserted as well, and Mulder slid inside, shoulder first.

It was some sort of priest’s chambers. There was a low table in the center, and an overturned chair by the wall. A pair of crucifixes hung at eye level above the chair.

Beneath the crucifixes stood a small shelf of sacramental items: a few cheap-looking goblets, a pair of candles, an empty wine bottle. Next to the shelf hung an enormous, faded tapestry, taking up almost half of the back wall.

Mulder could make out the outline of three separate miracles imprinted on the tapestry, but the details had long since eroded.

Mulder slid toward the tapestry, his feet making as little sound as possible. The bottom of the tapestry was swinging, as if brushed by a gentle wind. Mulder 242

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grabbed a handful of the thick material and lifted.

He found himself peering into a dark, descending stairwell. The steps looked worn and scuffed, and Mulder could see they had once been covered in the same green carpeting as the front hall. He smiled, then narrowed his eyes. Caution demanded that he head back to the inn and get Scully—perhaps even contact Van Epps for some armed military backup. He had no idea what he was going to find in those tunnels.

But the longer he waited, the less chance he would find answers. The young man could easily slip away.

Mulder shook away his reservations, bent low, and carefully slid beneath the tapestry. He slowly worked his way down the stairs, one hand gliding along the cold stone wall.

The stairs ended about twenty-five feet below the church, at the mouth of a long tunnel. The tunnel had porcelain-tiled walls, with steel support beams rising out of the cement floor at regular intervals. It looked roughly as Mulder had imagined; more modern and clean than the subway tunnels where he and Scully had found Perry Stanton, but certainly not the sort of thing you’d find in any urban mall in the U.S.

To Mulder’s surprise, the tunnel was well lit by fluorescent light strips set every few yards into the curved ceiling. The lights meant two things; there was some sort of power source beneath the church. And the underground tunnels had not been abandoned twenty years ago with the rest of the MASH unit.

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Mulder headed forward, calling on his training to keep his progress near silent. The air had a brisk, cavernous feel, and Mulder wondered if there was a ventilation system in place. He thought he could detect the soft hum of a fan in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure.

Ten yards beyond the stairwell, the tunnel branched out in two directions. Mulder paused at the fork, his back hard against one of the steel struts rising up along the wall. To the left, the tunnel seemed to go on forever, winding like a snake beneath Alkut. To the right, the curved walls opened up into some sort of chamber.

Mulder shifted his gun to his other hand and retrieved his map one more time. He tried to place himself near one of the major chambers—but he couldn’t be sure where he had entered the underground compound. His best guess was that he was a few feet from a large, oval room labeled C23. Judging from the distance he had just traveled, C23 appeared to be about fifty feet across.

Mulder decided it was worth investigating, and exchanged the map for the automatic. He held the gun with both hands, index finger beneath the trigger. Then he swung around the corner and through the entrance to the chamber.

He had accurately judged the dimensions of the room.

The ceiling was higher than in the tunnels, curved like the inside of a tennis ball. As in the tunnels, the walls were covered in porcelain tiles, but the tiles had gone from light green to a much deeper, oceanic blue. The floor was still cement, and there were two steel posts in 244

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the center of the chamber supporting the high ceiling. At the back of the chamber was the opening to what looked to be another tunnel.

Mulder’s eyes widened as he saw row after row of hospital stretchers taking up most of the sheer cement floor. Each stretcher was partially concealed by a light blue, circular plastic curtain. Next to the stretchers stood chrome IV racks trailing long yellow rubber IV wires.

The walls on either side of the chamber were lined with high-tech medical equipment—much fancier and certainly more expensive than anything he had seen in Fielding’s clinic. He saw what looked to be an ultra-sound station, a pair of EEG machines, and at least a dozen crash carts trailing defibrillator wires. Next to the crash carts stood an electron microscope, next to that a computer cabinet supporting a row of state-of-the-art monitors. The monitors’ screens all emitted a blank blue light.

Across from the monitors stood a high glass shelf full of chemical vials and test-tube racks. Next to the shelf was a freestanding machine Mulder recognized as an autoclave, a steam sterilizing unit with a clear glass front and a digital control panel. The autoclave was about the size of a small closet, and the control panel was lit; the machine seemed to be in use. Between the sterilizer, the computers, and the various machines, this chamber was drawing a lot of power.

Mulder moved forward, counting the partially curtained stretchers. His eyebrows rose as he reached 130, 245

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closely packed together in groups of ten and twenty.

Altogether, the same number of stretchers as patients on the
Trowbridges’ list.
Mulder reached the center of the chamber, his thoughts swirling. Was it possible that a group of horribly burned soldiers had been kept here, alive, for more than twenty-five years? Was it possible that Emile Paladin had truly discovered a miracle—

Mulder froze, as sudden footsteps echoed through the chamber. He spun toward the sound—and saw the thin young man standing at the entrance to the chamber.

Now that there was less distance between them, he noticed that the man was of mixed origin. His eyes were narrow and dark, his face sharply angled. He was a good two inches taller than Mulder, and his lithe muscles looked like twisted ropes beneath his skin.

The young man’s hands were hidden beneath the wide sleeves of his smock. Mulder made sure his gun was clearly visible. “I’m Agent Mulder of the American FBI. I’m going to approach, slowly. Don’t make any sudden motions.”

The young man smiled. There was a loud shuffling from somewhere behind Mulder’s right shoulder. Mulder jerked his body to the side—and saw three men enter the chamber from the opposite entrance. All three were tall, and looked to be in their early twenties. They had matching crew cuts and seemed to be in excellent physical shape. They moved easily into the room, spreading out as they closed toward Mulder. The largest of the three strolled directly toward him, and Mulder noticed 246

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that he had something in his right hand: a syringe filled with clear liquid.

Mulder aimed his gun at the man’s chest. “Stay where you are.”

The man continued forward. Mulder realized there was something off about his face. The man’s eyes seemed strangely overdilated. He was looking right at Mulder—

but he seemed somewhere else entirely, locked in some sort of daze.

“Not another step,” Mulder warned, flipping the safety off his automatic. “I said stop!” The two wingmen were within fifteen feet, now closing toward him. The man with the syringe was barely ten feet away. Mulder aimed directly at his chest. The man paused—but not because of the gun. He was looking at the syringe. He tapped it against his arm, knocking away an air bubble.
This was going to get ugly.

Suddenly, all three men dived forward. Mulder fired twice, the gun kicking into the air. The lead man jerked back on his feet, then regained his momentum and continued toward Mulder. Before Mulder could fire again, incredibly strong arms grabbed his wrists, twisting his hands behind his back. The Smith & Wesson clattered to the floor.

He kicked out, trying desperately to twist free. The man with the syringe leaned over him, and he caught a glimpse of something that sent his terrified mind spinning. The man had a circular red rash on the back of his neck.

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Mulder felt a sharp prick just above his collarbone.

The three men suddenly released him, stepping back.

Mulder’s knees buckled, and he fell, trying limply to catch himself on the curtain around a nearby stretcher.

The curtain snapped free, and he hit the ground. He heard laughter behind him, and he used all his strength to turn his head. The Amerasian was watching him, smiling. The smile seemed to extend at the corners, twisting and turning like a rope made of blood. Mulder tried to crawl away, but he couldn’t get the commands to his muscles. His body had changed to liquid. Green clouds swept across his vision, and he felt the cold floor against his cheek. A second later, everything turned black.

Quo Tien shouted a blunt command, and the three drones started back toward the other side of the room. Tien watched their fluid progress, intrigued by their perfect muscle control, the lack of stagger in their walk. He remembered how it was in the beginning. The plodding, slow movements, the limited limb control. The progress was indeed impressive. But it was only partially complete. The drones represented only the first stage of the experiment. In a few hours, the final stage would begin.

Twenty-five years of research funneled into a single operation—an operation that was going to make Tien immensely rich. And now there was nothing to stand in the way.

Tien turned his attention back to the FBI agent lying on the floor. A shiver moved through him as he flicked 248

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the straight razor out from beneath his sleeve. He could imagine the man’s blood flowing just beneath his skin.

He wanted to taste that blood, to feel it spread over his hands and lips.

He slid forward. The FBI agent was lying on his side, legs curled in a fetal position. His dark hair was spiked with sweat, and his face was drawn, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. Tien dropped to his knees inches away. He ran a finger down the man’s bare arm, feeling the slick sweat and the tense muscles beneath. He carefully lifted the razor—

“Tien. Put it down.”

Tien looked up, anger flickering across his face. He watched as Julian Kyle strolled into the chamber. Julian was wearing a white lab coat over surgical scrubs. His hands were covered with latex gloves, and there was a heavy cooler under his right arm.

“Uncle Julian,” Tien spit. “You’re ruining my moment.”

“He’s an agent with the FBI,” Kyle said, sternly. “It isn’t as simple as that.”

“It can be,” Tien responded, glancing at the razor’s blade. “This is Thailand, not the U.S.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’ll send agents. The military will get involved. We can’t risk the interruptions—not so close to the final experiment. And there’s a better way.” Kyle raised the plastic cooler. Tien sighed, leaning back from the FBI agent’s body. He knew the real reason for Kyle’s reticence. Julian Kyle was weak. But there was 249

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logic in his words. “I guess it’s not for either of us to decide.”

Tien rose, sliding the straight razor back into his sleeve. In truth, both FBI agents had determined their own fate the minute they had entered Alkut.

“And the woman?” Kyle asked, setting the cooler down on one of the stretchers. “She’s being dealt with as well?”

Tien nodded. “I sent a drone. He should be arriving at her room any moment.”

“And one drone will be enough?” Tien laughed. The drones were primitive compared to what was coming—but certainly, a single drone could handle the female agent. Kyle nodded, realizing it was true. It was just a matter of time before Dana Scully’s body was laid out next to her partner’s.

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X Scully watched from fifteen feet away as the small green lizard crawled across the perforated metal screen. The lizard had bulging black eyes, dark red spots, and a curved, tapered tail; probably some sort of Asian gecko, she mused, the remnants of some species of dinosaur too primitive to realize it was supposed to be extinct. At the moment, the gecko was doing its best to right evolution’s mistake. Inches beneath the metal screen, a pair of propeller-shaped fan blades whirled by, pushing dense waves of humid air across the cramped hotel bedroom. As the gecko crawled across the circular mesh covering, its tail dangled precariously close to the blades. Any second, the fan would consume the little creature, spreading its bits and pieces across the room.

Jackson Pollock gone reptilian: In Scully’s opinion, it certainly wouldn’t hurt the hotel’s spartan sense of 251

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decor. The squat, antique fan sat atop a teak bed table, next to a pair of twin-sized, water-stained mattresses.