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Title: The Garou Files: A Nightmare at Hegal Place
Author: Mrs. Fish
Fandom: X-Files
Pairing: None in this story; Mulder/Krycek (eventually)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence; minor spoilers for Gethsemene.
E-mail address for feedback: mrs_fish@hotmail.com
Series: The Garou Files
Summary: Is it a nightmare or reality? And what happens when
they're the same? An X-Files/Werewolf: The Apocalypse crossover.
Bookcover: https://www.squidge.org/~mrs_fish/xfiles/bookcovers/garou_nitemare.jpg
Notes: This is a prequel, of sorts, to a much larger AU series I'm writing in which Mulder and Krycek are both werewolves. No knowledge of the Werewolf role playing game is needed to understand this story.
Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox, Chris Carter or others is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story.
O God! I could be bounded in a nut-shell,
and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.
-- Hamlet act 2, sc. 2, 1. [263]
Washington, DC
September 1992
The darkness surrounds me like a shroud.
It's a comforting feeling; a warmth that courses through my veins as strongly as my own life's blood. A sharp contrast to the chill night air that slips down the upturned collar of my trenchcoat.
Whitecaps rise and spray ahead of a strong wind that gusts down the Potomac. Flags snap like gunshots, and automobiles tremble when they're caught broadside at the city's wider intersections.
The Mall is nearly deserted.
A few scraps of paper tumble across the short, brown grass, and a long black cat races for the leeward shelter of a Metro station. I watch and smile briefly as the animal vigorously attacks a candy wrapper that skitters ahead of it before sitting calmly, only its tail twitching.
It looks in my direction. I see the eyes gleaming narrow, and sense the soft warning growl deep in its throat before fear forces it to scurry into the sheltering shadows.
I hunch my shoulders before moving on; watch the streetlight shadow slip ahead of me and swing behind. I have no clear idea where I want to go, or where I'll end up; for the moment, just being outside -- being able to breathe fresh air -- is good enough.
The wind rises, bringing scents I ignore -- gasoline and warm metal; cooling stone and exhaust; an old woman asleep, wrapped in rags and newsprint, dying. I round a corner into a small, upscale shopping district and pause... looking for clues that will lead me to my prey.
It's out there; it always is.
I know it. I just can't see it... yet.
I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
-- John Milton, Paradise Lost
There were no shapes or shadows now; the night had taken them and replaced them with long stretches of nothing but the reach of the car's headlights. They turned the tarmac gray, blending the trees along the highway into a mottled, black wall.
Neither the interstate's sparse evening traffic, nor the darkened landscape had registered except as flashes of headlights, glimpses of illuminated signs pointing this way to fuel, that way to food.
I'd been functioning on automatic; my concentration focused only on the need to escape the city. A need so tangible I could almost taste it -- the metallic taste of blood.
A yawn breaks the silence, so wide and noisy that I almost laugh. My fog-shrouded brain functions enough to realize I need to stop and rest.
I find a Ramada Inn half a mile off the highway and take a room. I set my bag down, then begin to pace from door to window, over and over. I catch myself and quickly go outside to walk for a while; to stretch my limbs and breathe the night air.
Despite my weariness, I'm restless... too restless to stay in a place with four walls.
I walk slowly, inhaling the scent of earth still damp from a recent light rain. The sounds of muffled music from the motel's bar, someone laughing gently, dresser drawers being slammed, and the deep rumbling of a truck from the highway drift over me; centering me to this place.
A few more steps. I keep close to the trees in case someone should look out. But I won't be seen; I'm as much at home out here as in there.
I duck into the trees and begin to trot, then run; exhilarating in the feel of the cool night air against my flushed skin. Lungs burning and sides aching, I stop briefly to catch my breath. It's then that I realize the world has suddenly fallen silent.
Cocking my head, I strain for a sound -- any sound -- beyond the rasp of my own breathing. It lasts only a few seconds, but it's long enough to remind me that my restlessness isn't entirely due to job stress or exhaustion.
Much of it is because it's been a while since I last hunted.
Since I took the form.
Since I marked my prey.
Since I tasted blood.
A slow smile parts my lips; the rumbling in my throat almost tickles.
I can see the lights from a few of the motel's windows through the trees, and wonder what they'd think if they heard something howling out here. Would they come out or hide? Investigate or call for help?
It was tempting. So wonderfully, dangerously tempting that I might have done it if a first-floor drapery hadn't parted. I saw a shadow there; someone looking out at the night.
I sigh loudly and slowly make my way back to my room.
Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow night I'll allow myself a few hours of freedom.
But for now there's a need to rest. Perhaps a quick call to my partner to allay her concerns over my behavior the last few days.
As I enter the room, I barely have time to take off my clothes before sleep drags me under, and all else is forgotten in the velvet umbra which surrounds me.
Strut on the line it's discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
-- Duran Duran, "Hungry Like the Wolf"
I found him tonight. Roaming the back alleys of a once proud neighborhood -- reduced now to empty, decaying buildings which housed the castaways of society -- I caught the unmistakable stench of one of the Wyrm's minions.
The hunt had begun.
But he was making it too easy. He had to be leading me into a trap.
His pace never changed; he made no attempt to alter his course. It was almost as if he wanted me to catch him. Or so I thought at the time.
The expression on his face when I cornered him told me I was wrong.
Backed against unyielding brick and mortar, the acrid smell of his fear permeated the air around me, almost drowning out the foul odor of decay surrounding him. Almost, but not quite.
I drew lips back over fangs and snarled. He frantically sought a means to escape, but, thankfully for me, there was none. His panic-stricken brain overloaded and instinct took over -- a need to flee overriding common sense. He ran... straight into my waiting jaws.
He made a brief, choking noise as I tore out his throat; the blood gurgled and bubbled, then cascaded down the front of his denim jacket. I firmly held his spasming body and gazed into the blackness of his terror-filled eyes as his life faded before me. When it was over, I dropped him where I stood -- another bit of detritus added to the pile -- retrieved my clothes, made my way back to the car and headed home.
All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
-- Elias Canetti, Die Provinz der Menschen (1973) p. 269
Alexandria, Virginia
February, 1997
I can smell him; the scent is unmistakable. I weave between parked cars, hiding in shadows. Waiting. Stalking. Hunting.
He glances back over his shoulder. Yes, he knows someone or something is following and he quickens his pace just a fraction.
Too late.
I leap from behind my cover and chase him into an alley. Trapped.
His scream is cut off by clamping jaws and shredding claws. I raise my head, letting the rich warmth flow down my throat, and howl triumphantly...
"Nooooooooooooooo!"
It takes me a minute to realize I'm in the living room of my apartment. The gentle bubbling of the fish tank is calming and reassuring after the nightmare.
I'm trembling and drenched in sweat. Again. How many nights does this make now?
I swing my legs off the sofa, prop elbows on knees, and bury my face in my hands. My heart is pounding out a jackhammer tattoo in my chest. If this keeps up much longer, I won't have to worry about dying in the field. I'll just keel over from a heart attack after one of these damned dreams.
Rising shakily, I manage to get to the bathroom and into the shower without giving in to the panic threatening to overwhelm me.
I bury myself in work. Exhaustion is the only way to escape my terror-filled nights.
When Arlinsky contacted me about his find in the St. Elias Mountains, I jumped like a starving dog that's been offered a bone. I realized too late that the bone was man-made.
Deceived. By both Arlinsky and Kritschgau. Tangled in their web of lies, there's only one way out -- the Glock resting in my hand.
I need a miracle. But I'd lost my faith a long time ago... along with Samantha.
So I pick up my service revolver, place it against my head and squeeze my eyes shut.
"Mulder..."
A whisper; a caress. It gets my attention.
I gasp. Backlit from the hallway, he looks like an angel -- well, maybe a dark angel. Black leather and denim and a gaze that draws me into its depths.
"We need to talk."
Who am I to argue with intervention, divine or otherwise?
The end.
To be continued in The Garou Files: Of Wolf and Man.
