The X-Files: Antibodies by Kevin J. Anderson Page B
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
Tags: Fiction, Media Tie-In
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had never before witnessed anything remotely like this.
And he hoped it wasn’t contagious.
This revamped building had been Elliott Hughart’s home, his place of work, for decades, but now it seemed strange and sinister to him. If this dog had some sort of unknown disease, he would have to contact the Centers for Disease Control.
He knew what to do in the case of a rabies outbreak or other diseases that normally afflicted household pets—
but these tiny microscopic . . . slivers? They were utterly foreign to him.
In the back surgery room, the caged animals set up a louder racket, yowling and barking. The old man noticed it subconsciously, but the noise wasn’t enough to tear him from his fascination with what he saw under the microscope.
Hughart rubbed his eyes and focused the microscope again, blurring the image past its prime point and then back to sharp focus again. The glittering specks were still there, buzzing about, moving cells.
He swallowed hard; his throat was dry and cottony.
What to do now?
Then he realized that the barking and meowing inside the operating room cages had become an outright din, as if a fox had charged into a henhouse.
Hughart spun around, bumped into his metal stool, knocked it over, and hopped about on one foot 54
T H E X - F I L E S
as pain shot through his hip. When he finally rushed into the operating room, he looked at the cages first to see the captive animals pressed back against the bars of their cages, trying to get away from the center of the room.
He didn’t even look at the black Lab, because it should have been dead by now—but then he heard paws skittering across the slick surface of stainless steel.
The dog got to its feet, shook itself, and leaped down from the table, leaving a smear of blood on the clean surface. But the dog showed no more wounds, no damage. It trembled with energy, completely healed.
Hughart stood in total shock, unable to believe that the dog had not only regained consciousness—
despite its grievous injuries and the euthanasia drug—
but had jumped down from the table. This was as incredible as the swarming contamination in the blood sample.
He caught his breath, then eased forward. “Here, boy, let me take a look.”
Quivering, the dog barked at him, then backed away.
TEN
DyMar Laboratory Ruins
Tuesday, 4:50 P.M.
Not long before sunset, a patch of bright X blue sky made a rare appearance in the hills over Portland. Mulder squinted up, wishing he had brought along sunglasses as he maneuvered the rental car up the steep drive to the site of the DyMar Laboratory.
Much of the facility’s structure remained intact, though entirely gutted by the fire. The walls were blackened, the wood support structure burned to char-coal, the office furniture slumped and twisted. Some overhead beams had toppled, while others balanced precariously against the concrete load-bearing walls and metal girders. Glass shards lay scattered among ashes and broken stone.
As they crested the hill and reached the sagging chain-link fence around the site, Mulder shifted the car into park and looked through the windshield. “A real fixer-upper,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to my real estate agent.”
Scully got out of the car and looked over at him.
“Too late to make an offer, Mulder—this place is 56
T H E X - F I L E S
scheduled to be demolished in a few days to make way for a new business park.” She scanned the thick stands of dark pines and the sweeping view of Portland spread out below, with its sinuous river and necklace of bridges.
Mulder realized the construction crew was moving awfully fast, disturbingly so. He and Scully might not even be able to finish a decent investigation in the amount of time alloted to them.
He opened the chain-link gate; sections of the fence sagged and left wide gaps. Signs declaring DANGER and WARNING adorned the fence, marking the hazards of the half-collapsed building; he doubted those signs would
And he hoped it wasn’t contagious.
This revamped building had been Elliott Hughart’s home, his place of work, for decades, but now it seemed strange and sinister to him. If this dog had some sort of unknown disease, he would have to contact the Centers for Disease Control.
He knew what to do in the case of a rabies outbreak or other diseases that normally afflicted household pets—
but these tiny microscopic . . . slivers? They were utterly foreign to him.
In the back surgery room, the caged animals set up a louder racket, yowling and barking. The old man noticed it subconsciously, but the noise wasn’t enough to tear him from his fascination with what he saw under the microscope.
Hughart rubbed his eyes and focused the microscope again, blurring the image past its prime point and then back to sharp focus again. The glittering specks were still there, buzzing about, moving cells.
He swallowed hard; his throat was dry and cottony.
What to do now?
Then he realized that the barking and meowing inside the operating room cages had become an outright din, as if a fox had charged into a henhouse.
Hughart spun around, bumped into his metal stool, knocked it over, and hopped about on one foot 54
T H E X - F I L E S
as pain shot through his hip. When he finally rushed into the operating room, he looked at the cages first to see the captive animals pressed back against the bars of their cages, trying to get away from the center of the room.
He didn’t even look at the black Lab, because it should have been dead by now—but then he heard paws skittering across the slick surface of stainless steel.
The dog got to its feet, shook itself, and leaped down from the table, leaving a smear of blood on the clean surface. But the dog showed no more wounds, no damage. It trembled with energy, completely healed.
Hughart stood in total shock, unable to believe that the dog had not only regained consciousness—
despite its grievous injuries and the euthanasia drug—
but had jumped down from the table. This was as incredible as the swarming contamination in the blood sample.
He caught his breath, then eased forward. “Here, boy, let me take a look.”
Quivering, the dog barked at him, then backed away.
TEN
DyMar Laboratory Ruins
Tuesday, 4:50 P.M.
Not long before sunset, a patch of bright X blue sky made a rare appearance in the hills over Portland. Mulder squinted up, wishing he had brought along sunglasses as he maneuvered the rental car up the steep drive to the site of the DyMar Laboratory.
Much of the facility’s structure remained intact, though entirely gutted by the fire. The walls were blackened, the wood support structure burned to char-coal, the office furniture slumped and twisted. Some overhead beams had toppled, while others balanced precariously against the concrete load-bearing walls and metal girders. Glass shards lay scattered among ashes and broken stone.
As they crested the hill and reached the sagging chain-link fence around the site, Mulder shifted the car into park and looked through the windshield. “A real fixer-upper,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to my real estate agent.”
Scully got out of the car and looked over at him.
“Too late to make an offer, Mulder—this place is 56
T H E X - F I L E S
scheduled to be demolished in a few days to make way for a new business park.” She scanned the thick stands of dark pines and the sweeping view of Portland spread out below, with its sinuous river and necklace of bridges.
Mulder realized the construction crew was moving awfully fast, disturbingly so. He and Scully might not even be able to finish a decent investigation in the amount of time alloted to them.
He opened the chain-link gate; sections of the fence sagged and left wide gaps. Signs declaring DANGER and WARNING adorned the fence, marking the hazards of the half-collapsed building; he doubted those signs would
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