Title:  Zombie Breath, or Four Scenes of Terror

Author: Alelou

Feedback: Alelou123@aol.com (Note the 123 -- if you 
send it to just plain Alelou, a nice woman named 
Alexandria gets it and wonders what sort of weird 
life I lead)

Rating: PG-13 for language

Category: Post-Ep for Millennium, MSR

Spoilers: Millenium

Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Property of 1013, CC & Fox

Archiving: Spookys, Gossamer okay, others yes but please
    let me know.

Summary:  If you can survive the terror of fending off
killer zombies, shouldn't you be able to talk with your partner?

Note:  I know, like the world needs another post-Millennium
story, especially now when we're all busy with holiday stuff.
This is my last-minute Happy New Year for all -- and 
especially for my dear cyber-friends Lynne and Jamie. 

Scene 1

She was drowning in the acrid tang of rotting flesh, a 
rising tide of the worst stench she'd ever tried to ignore 
in all her years of autopsies.  Gasping for a clear 
breath, she fell back against the wall, arm raised 
protectively against the creature's horrible maw.  This 
abomination -- this thing that couldn't and shouldn't exist 
and yet did -- pushed her arm aside easily and 
bent its head toward her throat.  Unlike other attackers 
she'd known, there was no eye contact, no glory in the kill.  
Not that it could necessarily see anything through those 
opaque ruins of its eyes.  Yet it certainly knew exactly 
where she was. 

The moment slowed.  She became keenly aware of her own 
rushing blood, her panting breath, the hum of the morgue air 
conditioning, the moans of the woman on the floor, all these 
sounds slower and louder than normal -- and all of it 
drenched in the consuming odor of decomposing flesh.  In 
some distant analytical part of her mind she was still 
trying to think strategically, and she noted that it didn't 
breathe, or sweat, or tremble, or give off heat.  There wasn't 
anything she could do with the information, however.  Her 
desperate efforts to fend it off were entirely without result. 
Its movements were economical -- and entirely focused on her
throat.  She heard herself whimper.  

As the creature bit into her neck, she thought, Mulder, you 
were right, damn it.  She wished he were here to save her, 
if that were even possible against something that was already
dead and apparently impervious to bullets.  But it felt entirely
wrong that he hadn't charged in to save the day yet.

There was the tremendous crack of a gunshot at close 
range, and Scully couldn't hear a thing anymore, could only 
slide down the wall on legs turned to jelly and eye the 
creature now sprawled on the floor, its shattered skull 
oozing something brown and rancid like blood, only thicker.  
She gagged reflexively and brought her hand up to her 
throat, instinctively putting pressure on the bleeding gashes 
there.  The man she had seen before stood in front of her, 
her gun in his hand, and gave her a vaguely apologetic look.  
Then he threw her gun across the room and ran.

Scene 2

Fox Mulder stood swaying and nauseated in a tiny circle of 
kosher salt and thought, what the fuck am I doing here?  
What the hell did I think I was going to accomplish?  Did it 
ever occur to me that four trained FBI agents aren't 
necessarily an easy arrest, never mind when they're already 
dead?  Did I think they were going to follow me to the car 
so I could drive them to the local police station?  Idiot.  So
now what?

"So how exactly do you guys plan to bring on the 
apocalypse?" he called out to the darkened basement.

No answer.  The zombies, he had found, were not big on 
conversation.  The three who were left after he blew their 
colleague's head off had swarmed around him, roaring in 
apparent frustration, gnashing their teeth and choking him 
their horrific odor, until they disappeared into their 
zombie hiding places again.  

"You know, you guys don't seem to have much of a plan," he 
continued.  "As far as I can see, all there is to it is huddling 
in the basement and trying to eat anybody who comes 
downstairs.  I'd expected a little more organization, you 
know?  Maybe even a Biblical quote or two."

Oops, he was swaying.  Wouldn't be a good idea to swoon just 
now, Mulder old boy.  He'd lost a pretty good supply of 
blood before he managed to tie his tie around his arm, and 
now it was throbbing mercilessly.  This situation was about 
as untenable as any he'd been in recently, though he had to 
admit lying on some whacked-out consortium operating table 
while people did things to his brain had seemed like real 
rock-bottom not all that long ago.  Now he'd welcome it.  At 
least then he could just lie down comfortably until Scully 
came to rescue him.

So where was she, anyway?

Shit, he'd fallen to his knees.  Was that a zombie waking 
up, or just this apocalyptic nut's water heater?  
Desperately he fought to rise and found that it was just 
not happening.  His vision swam and his stomach lurched.  
Plainly, any time he'd hoped to spend on his feet was 
nearing an end.  

And then, as his vision cleared, he realized that oh yes, 
that was a zombie over there staring at him with those 
horrible white eyes.

With a flush of adrenaline, he scooped up as much salt as he 
could at his feet and scuttled back toward the wall, where 
he huddled and spread salt that was now mixed with dirt in a 
semicircle around himself. It wasn't very impressive 
looking.  He scavenged in his pocket for more crystals and 
wondered again why the hell he hadn't come armed with at 
least a saltshaker.  Could have pocketed one at lunch, for 
God's sake.  

The other zombies had joined the first and now they were 
approaching slowly, serenading him with those oh-so-sweet 
zombie groans.  He raised the gun.  They stopped.  Then they 
all faded into the background again.

Scully would like this, he thought.  See, Mulder, it's not 
the salt stopping them -- it's your gun.  They drew a 
rational conclusion.  Try to reason with them.  But he could 
only hope that when he passed out, as seemed likely to 
occur any minute, he could rely on the salt.  

He rested his head against the back wall, dizzy and 
nauseated and cold, and couldn't help thinking again -- 
so where are you, Scully?

Scene 3

She was smiling at him!  A tiny little Scully smile, but it 
would do.  "The world didn't end," he said, delighted.

"No, it didn't," she agreed, but her voice turned dry and 
she turned her face away from him and now it suddenly seemed 
that he'd screwed up somehow.  Maybe she'd expected the kind 
of kiss that would end the world? Maybe she'd wanted him to 
say something more romantic?  Maybe romance was specifically 
what she wanted to discourage?  He peered at her, trying to 
figure out what had just happened, but she wasn't giving him 
any clues.

"Happy New Year, Scully," he said, a bit chastened.

"Happy New Year, Mulder," she said quietly.

Damn.  So that was it?  A kiss between friends?  He thought 
it had gone on a bit longer than that.  Still, he could be 
cool.  He slung his arm around her shoulders, instinctively 
trying to maintain a connection rather than face the 
awkwardness and distance that now seemed inevitable.  Okay, 
Scully old pal, he thought, with only a touch of regret.  At 
least I finally kissed you.  That should cover my 
resolutions for the year pretty well.

They had to wait for the elevator.  She gently disengaged 
herself from under his arm while they waited and gave him a 
little smile that quite didn't reach to her eyes.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Yeah."

They got on the elevator and he punched the Lobby button.  

Silence fell.

"Zombie breath," he muttered.

"What?"

"Zombie breath.  I have it.  It's what you get when you've 
been locked in a basement with four pissed-off zombies for 
way too long."

She scrunched up her face until that little wrinkle he 
considered all his own doing appeared between her eyebrows.  
"Maybe so, but zombies themselves don't breathe," she said.  

When he looked puzzled, she said "I got up close and personal
with one myself today.  You were right, Mulder.  I'm afraid 
the pathologist didn't get my call about leaving those staples in 
soon enough."  Then she pulled down her collar and lifted 
her chin to show him her scratches.

The elevator opened.  She turned and walked out while he was 
still gaping, his left hand halfway up in the act of 
reaching up to touch her neck.

"Are you okay?" he asked, catching up with her.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"You were pretty out of it in the ambulance, Mulder.  And 
then I just really didn't feel like getting committed to the 
psych ward tonight.  Do you mind if I get a cup of coffee?"  
She turned into the nearly deserted hospital cafeteria.

"Let's sit down," he said.

"You should get home and get some sleep," she said.  "I can 
drink it in the car."

"Let's sit down," he begged.

"Are you feeling dizzy?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

"No, I just want to talk to you."  

She looked at him speculatively, and he thought, oh God, 
what did I just say?  Now what do I do?

Scene 4

At the service counter she stirred milk into her coffee 
with shaking hands.  Mulder had declined a cup.  He was 
sitting at a booth, waiting.  He wanted to talk to her.

Mulder wanted to talk to her.

Oh God.

She walked back slowly, her heart thumping.  She eased 
herself into the seat slowly and calmly, but inside she
was a wreck.  What if he told her he loved her?  

What if he didn't?

He looked at her with an unreadable expression.

She took the lid off her coffee and blew on it.  She'd 
made sure to get the lid in case they needed to make a 
quick run for the car if awkwardness set in.

"So talk," she said, finding the waiting unbearable.

He took a deep breath and looked terrified, which she found 
reassuring.  "Here's the thing, Scully.  If that was our 
last kiss, I can do better."

It took her a second to figure that one out.  Then she 
grinned.  "You think I'm disappointed with your performance, 
Mulder?"

"I don't know what to think."

"It was very nice," she said.

He looked nonplussed.

"It was very nice," she insisted.  "A bit of a surprise 
after all this time, that's all."

"Takes me awhile to work up to things sometimes," he said.

"Well, I thought maybe it was just a spur of the moment 
thing, you know," she explained, trying to stay calm.  "New 
Year's Rockin' Eve, and all."

He sighed.  "Well, yeah, it was a spur of the moment thing, 
but I've been thinking about doing it for a long, long 
time."

He had?  A thrill that was half fear, half excitement, 
coursed through her.  "And now that you've done it?" she 
asked, with just the tiniest waver in her voice.

"Just wondering when I can look forward to doing it again."

She assessed him for a moment, unable to stop herself from
wondering about his painkillers, his lack of sleep, his
reflexive innuendoes.

He waited calmly, but she could tell he was quaking.

"Anytime," she said simply.

"Really?" he squeaked.

"Well, I wouldn't recommend it during meetings with 
Skinner."  She reached out and grabbed his free hand, 
suddenly moved nearly to tears.  "You have no idea how glad 
I am that you finally stopped thinking about it and did it." 

He looked solemnly at their hands joined together.  "You 
could have kissed me, too, you know," he murmured.

"No I couldn't.  You had to be ready for it, not pushed into 
it.  And frankly, I wasn't sure you'd ever be ready for it."

"I am now."

She smiled.  "I know you'll find this shocking, Mulder, but 
I believe you."

That earned her a wide smile.  But then he couldn't help 
yawning.  "Ugh, I still have zombie breath," he said.

"So do I," she sighed.  "Look, why don't we get ourselves 
home and take it from there?  After all this time, there's 
no need to rush."

"That's true," he said, standing up as she stood up.  She 
disposed of her cup and headed for the door.

"No rush, huh?" he asked.

"No rush."

"So is tomorrow okay?" 

She smiled.  "Yeah, tomorrow's fine."

THE END

(And then, of course, if we ignore all date stamping, they
spent the next two episodes flirting like two happy 
little love birds.  Right, Chris?) 

See you in the next century! -- Sandy