Title: THE MASTODON DIARIES
Author: aka "Jake" 
Rating: NC-17 (Violence, Language, Graphic Sexual Content)
Classification: X; MSR; /O; post ep

Spoilers: "The Mastodon Diaries" takes place between "Folie A 
Deux" and "The End." It contains spoilers from throughout the 
series and is "canon compliant."

Summary: Mulder and Scully are thrown back in time...12,000 
years.

"Although common sense may rule out the possibility of time 
travel, the laws of quantum physics certainly do not. In case 
you forgot, Scully, that's from your graduate thesis. You were 
a lot more open-minded when you were a youngster." -- Mulder 
in "Synchrony"

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no. Also, Chapter 10 contains a nod 
to "Dances with Wolves," one of my favorite movies.

The paleo-indian terms listed here and used throughout "The 
Mastodon Diaries" are actually Navajo terms, as described in 
the Navajo Code Talkers' Dictionary at 
http://www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq61-4.htm. 
For the sake of this story, I followed the X-Files' plotline 
that posits the Navajo language is similar to the language 
originally spoken by the Anasazi, a group of Native people who 
mysteriously vanished without a trace from the American 
southwest more than 600 years ago. The character Albert 
Hosteen, Native Navajo and a Code Talker during WWII, told 
Mulder and Scully that "Anasazi" literally means "ancient 
aliens." He believed the Anasazi tribe had been abducted "by 
visitors who come here still." Hosteen later helped translate 
the symbols discovered on several fragments of an alien 
spacecraft. His ability to read the extraterrestrial symbols 
implied a connection, or at least a similarity, between the 
languages of Anasazi, Navajo and the alien visitors.
My profoundest apologies if I have inappropriately used any 
Navajo terms in this fictional novel.

Special thanks to mimic117, Dr. Guts, Jean Helms and jeri for 
beta. These "MastoBetas" kept me from sounding like a complete 
idiot. I can never thank them enough for their generosity and 
expertise. MWAH, gals! 


THE MASTODON DIARIES
By aka "Jake"

"Survival is the ultimate ideology." -- WMM, Fight the Future
 

PROLOGUE 

HILL AIR FORCE BASE
BOX ELDER COUNTY, UTAH
MAY 13, 1998
1:22 AM

Scully crouched on all fours, mimicking Mulder's low profile. 
She whispered into the dark, "I shouldn't have to tell you 
this, but we're breaking the law."  

"Shhhhh." Mulder pointed a cautionary finger at her. His hand 
glowed like a disembodied specter in the waning moonlight, 
while the rest of him remained cloaked in shadows. He wore 
black, as did she. Jeans, turtleneck, leather coat. Charcoal-
colored face paint camouflaged their cheeks. A faded Baltimore 
Black Sox baseball cap, circa 1932 and borrowed from Mulder, 
hid Scully's bright hair.

She listened to the snip-snip of his wire cutters, followed by 
the rattle of chain-link as he pulled aside a section of 
fence. He slipped through the breach like a cat burglar, then 
turned to help her trespass onto government property. 

Jesus, what had she been thinking when she agreed to come here 
with him? This was foolhardy...not to mention illegal.

"Mulder, if we get caught--"

"Shhhhh," he hushed her again. 

His fingers gripped her arm and drew her through the fence. 
Once on the other side, she knelt next to him...close enough 
to smell his antiperspirant, which to be honest was giving up 
the ghost. The hike from the car had been a long one, over 
rough terrain, and Mulder set a strenuous pace, jogging almost 
the entire way. She'd worked up a sweat trying to keep up and 
probably smelled equally sour. 

"Look," he whispered.

She followed the point of his finger to where runway lights 
illuminated a triangular-shaped aircraft to the east. Mulder 
was right. The ship was unlike anything they'd ever seen 
before.

Of course, that didn't make it extraterrestrial. Not in her 
book.

"Here they come." Mulder flattened himself in the weeds, 
stretching out on his stomach while he peered at the runway 
through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

Crickets whined in the scrub around them. Human voices drifted 
across the desert from the tarmac. The air smelled like dry 
grass, sage and ten thousand years of wind-scoured sand. 

"What are they doing?" Scully asked, squinting at the 
uniformed men who circled the craft. She crouched on hands and 
knees, hunching low, but refusing to lie on her belly the way 
Mulder was doing. The ground chilled her palms and she found 
herself wishing she'd worn gloves.

"I think they're gonna do it."

"Do it?"

"Fly." He adjusted the focus of his binoculars. "Uh-oh."

"What's the matter?" Goosebumps sprouted on her arms at his 
tone. Unable to make out anything from this distance, she had 
to rely on his eyes, trust his instincts. 

"I recognize one of them."

"Who?"

"Lisa Ianelli."

Lisa Ianelli -- girlfriend of time traveler Jason Nichols. 
What was she doing here?

"Hang on, Scully--" Mulder dropped his binoculars and grabbed 
her arm.

A chugging rumble emanated from the aircraft, causing the 
uniformed onlookers to scurry away. When the ship rose from 
the ground, it floated straight up, like a Harrier jet. It 
hung there, forty feet in the air, for ten seconds or so. 
Black and shaped like a shallow pyramid, it carried no 
insignia, no markings of any kind. Each of its triangular 
sides looked to be about thirty feet long. The bottom was flat 
and had a light at each point and a circular depression in the 
center. Six lights, arranged in a hexagon pattern, glowed 
around the inner circle.

The mysterious craft suddenly shot straight up, vanishing 
against the backdrop of stars, while causing an aftershock 
that rippled the sky. Sand and debris blasted the surrounding 
landscape. A stinging wind howled past Mulder and Scully, 
pinning them to the desert floor, while a sonic boom vibrated 
their bones.

Scully covered her head as the wind siphoned oxygen from her 
lungs. The last thing she remembered before losing 
consciousness was the feel of Mulder's fingers clutching 
desperately to the sleeve of her jacket.

* * *

Sun straight overhead. Painfully bright. Buzzing deerflies. 
Sweet smell of fresh grass...mixed with the musky odor of 
livestock.

Mulder groaned and tried to get his bearings. He was lying 
face down on the ground. Jesus, his head ached. His mouth felt 
bone dry and tasted sour, like...vomit. Oh, Christ, he'd 
thrown up at some point. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, and, 
blinking against the bright sun, looked around for Scully.

She was stretched out on the grass six feet away and appeared 
to be unconscious. 

"Sc-scully?" He coughed and swallowed, trying to moisten his 
mouth.

She didn't move, so he pushed himself into a sitting position. 
Every muscle pained him as he scooted closer and tapped her 
arm.

"Scully?" 

He could see dried blood caking her hairline, drawing flies. 
It pissed him off to see them there. What had happened to her 
cap? His head swiveled stupidly as he searched for it. 

"Scullee-scullee-scullee," he chanted, patting her hand. He 
felt queasy and lightheaded. How long had they been lying like 
this? he wondered. Where the hell was the Air Base? And the 
desert...?

Clearly, they weren't in northwestern Utah anymore. They were 
on a broad, grassy meadow. 

About ten yards away, six scrawny vultures formed a semicircle 
around them. The birds watched him with cautious eyes. One 
hopped closer.

"Get the hell outta here!" he yelled, causing the buzzards to 
flap their wings and retreat. 

In the distance, where the field met the forest, there was a 
herd of large, wooly...what exactly were those things? Too big 
for cows. Buffalo maybe? No, they had...tusks! Elephants?

He searched for his binoculars. Quickly locating them in the 
grass, he lifted them to his eyes and focused on the animals. 

"Oh, shhhit." 

Not elephants. 

Mastodons.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER ONE

SOMEWHERE IN NORTHWESTERN UTAH
LATE PLEISTOCENE
LATE SPRING, MIDDAY

Mulder removed his jacket, folded it in half and tucked it 
beneath Scully's head. Then he sat down beside her, prepared 
to wait as long as necessary for her to regain consciousness.

He passed the time by peering through his binoculars at the 
herd of mastodons, shooing flies from Scully's pale face, and 
chucking stones at the persistent vultures. 

He and Scully were in a hell of a predicament, and although he 
considered himself an able and brave man -- FBI-trained, with 
almost a decade of field experience -- he had to admit that 
the sight of Scully lying there as motionless as one of her 
cadavers scared the crap out of him. 

Watching over her, feeling utterly helpless, he was reminded 
of that terrible night when he was a kid, sitting beside the 
charred ruins of his boyhood friend's burned house. Would 
safeguarding Scully from a flock of hungry vultures give him 
years of nightmares, too? A phobia of buzzards, maybe, to go 
along with his fear of fire? 

And what if he lost her...?

Please, Scully, he pleaded silently. Open your eyes, pleeease.

The gash in her temple looked nasty -- ragged and oozing 
blood. A purple-black bruise the size of his palm darkened her 
forehead on the left side of her face, discoloring her skin 
from her hairline to her cheekbone. The size of the swelling 
unnerved him. He wished he'd been hurt instead of her, not 
just because he wanted to take away her suffering, but also 
because, with her medical knowledge, she would know how to 
patch him back together. As it was, he had no idea how to 
treat a head injury. And this one looked serious. 

He was wallowing in feelings of ineptitude when the mastodons 
began plodding west across the grassland, disappearing one-by-
one into the far off valley. The damn buzzards remained where 
they were, eyes trained on Scully's motionless form. Mulder 
hated their presumption, and considered shooting a couple of 
them with his gun. 

Common sense prevailed. His clip was full, but every bullet 
might prove precious later on.

Mulder picked up another stone and pitched it like a fastball 
at the second bird from the end. He caught the buzzard dead 
center in its chest, causing it to squawk and hop away. 

Take that, you fucking son-of-a-bitch.

The afternoon ticked slowly by. The sun beat down, intense and 
fiery hot. Mulder rotated his position as the sun moved, 
trying to keep Scully in the shadow of his body to shield her 
as much as possible from the sun's harsh rays. Her unprotected 
skin would burn easily out here in the open.

Should he pick her up and carry her into the shade? he 
wondered. The meadow merged into woodland about 500 yards to 
the north. He worried that moving her might cause some sort of 
internal damage. It was possible she had a neck injury or a 
broken bone. 

Chiding himself for not thinking of it sooner, he began to 
check her for breaks. He gently patted her arms and legs, and 
then unzipped her jacket to run his palms carefully over her 
ribs. Everything seemed fine. But what did he know? Maybe it 
wasn't possible to feel a rib fracture.   

For the next four hours he continued to lean over her, his 
back bearing the brunt of the sun's rays. The dark fabric of 
his turtleneck soaked in the heat, making him sweaty and 
restless. The vultures seemed to sense his discomfort and 
inched closer. In a fit of irritation, he yanked his shirt up 
over his head and flung it at them, only to become more 
aggravated when it fell short of its mark. 

Thank God, a steady breeze puffed across the open meadow, 
helping to cool his temper along with the sweat on his bare 
back. He plucked a blade of grass and chewed it, feeling like 
some hayseed from East Bumfuck, but thankful for the brief 
distraction of its tart flavor.

Late in the afternoon Scully finally stirred. 

"Mulder?" 

"I'm here." 

Gently, he stroked her hair, combing it back from her bloodied 
forehead. Her eyelids fluttered and opened. Relief prickled 
his skin when her eyes focused on his face and she appeared to 
recognize him. 

He smiled at her and said, "Hey."

She offered him a feeble smile in return, and then looked past 
him to the field of fresh grass and the semi-circle of 
vultures. 

"Where are we?" she asked.

"When."

"Excuse me?"

"Not 'where,' Scully -- 'when.' *When* are we."

She rose on one elbow and winced from the effort. The vultures 
backed away, beating their wings and clucking with almost 
human disappointment over her apparent recovery. 

"Mulder, what are you saying?"

"How's your American History?"

"Why?"

Deciding it might be best to ease into the truth, he gave a 
small shrug and tried to look unconcerned. "It's possible we 
might have...um...traveled back in time."

"Traveled--?" Now she sat bolt upright. "How far back in 
time?"

He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all 
right and there was nothing to be overly concerned about. Her 
physical condition was the most important thing right now, and 
she needed to be careful not to injure herself any more than 
she already was. On the other hand, he knew she wouldn't 
tolerate being kept in the dark; she didn't like being coddled 
any more than he did. So instead of saying more, he offered 
her another shrug.

"70s? 60s? 50s?" she asked.

"Getting warmer."

"Jesus, Mulder." She gazed at the meadow, the forest, and, 
farther away, the snow-covered mountain peaks. 

No airplanes flew overhead, no traffic passed by, no buildings 
stood anywhere within view. 

"Turn of the century?" she asked.

"More like...Late Pleistocene."

"I don't believe it. It isn't possible." She tentatively 
prodded the bruise on her forehead as if her injury was the 
cause of her confusion. "People can't travel back in time."

"If you want, I can quote your graduate thesis. 'Although 
common sense may rule out the possibility of time travel, the 
laws of quantum physics--'"

"I know what I wrote," she snapped. "I was barely out of my 
teens at the time. What the hell did I know?" 

He didn't want to make her angrier by saying he agreed with 
her youthful hypothesis, so instead he kept his tone even and 
applied the practiced calm he usually reserved for reluctant 
witnesses. "We've seen something like this before," he 
reminded her gently. "And Lisa Ianelli was at Hill Air Force 
Base."

The weight of his words sunk in and Scully's shoulders 
slumped. 

"Tachyons," she said, understanding the implications. 

He nodded. "Subatomic particles that can travel faster than 
the speed of light and go back in time--"

"But only for a few seconds and only at a temperature of 
absolute zero," she interrupted. "Mulder, in case you hadn't 
noticed, we were never frozen."

"I can't explain that, but it's possible Lisa Ianelli 
discovered another method, a way to travel through time that 
doesn't require freezing." He reached out and stroked her 
cheek, careful to avoid the bruise there. "I saw something, 
Scully." He knew this was going to sound ridiculous. "I 
saw...mastodons."

"Mastodons?" She looked as if she might actually laugh. "Okay, 
Mulder. Let's assume for the sake of argument that we've 
somehow traveled back in time...to the Pleistocene...or 
whenever...not that I believe that. But *if* it were true, 
then how do we get back?"

Well, that was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, wasn't 
it?

Now it was his turn to study their surroundings. The sun was 
low in the sky. It would be dark in another couple of hours, 
and no magic doorways to 1998 seemed to be presenting 
themselves. 

"I'm...I'm not sure we can get back."

Arching an eyebrow, she waited for him to say more. No doubt 
she expected him to launch into one of his typical numinous 
theories, but this was one X-File that had him stumped. It 
didn't help that he was too thirsty and too hungry to 
concentrate on gravitational anomalies, event horizons, or 
para-physics.

"We need to find drinking water before the sun sets," he said, 
rising to his feet. His knees ached from sitting for so long. 
He reached out a hand to help her up, and hoped she was 
feeling fit enough to travel. "Do you think you can walk?"

She nodded and took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her 
feet. Swaying on unsteady legs, she asked, "Which way, Mr. 
Indian Guide?"

He pivoted, considering the possibilities. Did it make sense 
to head toward the mountains? Snowmelt would mean freshwater 
streams, right? But which mountains? There were mountains on 
every side. The mastodons had headed west. They would be 
looking for water, wouldn't they? 

Or were mastodons like camels?

"West," he said, going with his gut and the wisdom of the 
mastodons. 

*   *   *

Peach-colored clouds striped the evening sky, promising a 
spectacular sunset. The sun appeared wedged between two 
mountain peaks, which Scully guessed were part of the 
Newfoundland Mountains...assuming she and Mulder were still 
anywhere on or near Hill Air Force Base in Box Elder County, 
Utah. Unfortunately, they'd left their map in the car, which 
would be in the opposite direction, if anywhere at all.

She tried to picture what the map had looked like. She knew 
Hill was a large backward z-shaped parcel of land located 
between Great Salt Lake to the east and the Great Salt Lake 
Desert to the west. The Base included the southernmost region 
of the dry Newfoundland Evaporation Basin, as well as the 
foothills of the Newfoundland Mountains. Squinting at the 
tallest rise, she guessed it might be Desert Peak, the range's 
highest point.

Or not. The grassy meadow they were crossing bore no 
resemblance to the desert they'd been in last night.    

Mulder was walking several paces ahead of her, leading them 
along a broad trail of trampled grass. She concentrated on the 
relentless swing of his jacket, which dangled from his left 
fist. He had slung his binoculars around his neck so that the 
strap crossed his back from right shoulder to left hip. His 
shirt was tied loosely around his waist.  

Not feeling as warm as he seemed to, she kept her coat on and 
hugged it tightly across her chest. In the back of her mind, 
it occurred to her that she might be in shock, a result of the 
blow to her head.

The meadow sloped gradually downhill. Mulder's elongated 
shadow stretched out behind him, reminding her of Dr. Chester 
Banton, the dark matter scientist with a lethal shadow. She 
didn't fear Mulder's shadow; to the contrary, she kept herself 
purposely inside it, feeling it somehow tethered her to him. 
If she happened to stumble or fall, it might pull him up 
short, alerting him to her trouble. Crazy idea, she knew, but 
she refused to step outside it in any case.

"Watch out for the prairie pies," he warned, pointing to an 
enormous mound of fresh dung. "Told you I saw a mastodon. That 
ain't no cow patty."

Had he really seen mastodons? 

No, it was impossible; this was just a bad dream, it had to 
be, and she was going to wake up any minute in her own bed. 
Maybe she would tell Mulder about her nightmare over coffee 
and Danish at the cart outside the second-floor bullpen 
tomorrow morning. He would tease her and then, after they 
returned to their office, he would pull out a stack of 
mastodon-related X-Files. "Mastodon Footprints Discovered on 
Mars" or "Woman Gives Birth to Boy With Tusks and Trunk; 
Father Was Mastodon in Former Life."

"You okay, Scully?" He was suddenly beside her, one arm 
gripping her shoulders, holding her up. She felt dizzy. Had 
she stopped walking? "Do you need to rest?"

"I'm fi--" Her knees buckled. 

He lowered her gently to the ground. "Sit for a minute. Your 
forehead's bleeding again." He untied the shirt from his waist 
and gently blotted her temple with it. 

"I'm thirsty."

"I know. Me, too." He held her tenderly. "We'll find water 
soon."

She leaned into him, thankful for his company and his care, 
and wanting more than anything to believe him about the water. 
Her throat ached for a drink. Then the edges of her vision 
began to fray, as if her eyes were falling victim to a too-
early sunset. Mosquito-sized flecks floated between her and 
Mulder's worried expression. The flecks swarmed and thickened 
until Mulder became lost in a gray snowstorm that made her 
think of all the grainy television sets in all the sleazy 
motels where they'd stayed over the years. Like the two-room 
hotel in Home, Pennsylvania, where she watched Mulder rotate 
the TV antenna, trying to bring its picture into focus. Wild 
animal sounds came from the staticky set. Not mastodons, but 
jackals or wolves. Predatory creatures. She'd left Mulder 
alone in that room, which couldn't be locked because he'd let 
her have the safer room, the one with the lock that worked. 
He'd risked his life for her.

She suddenly felt as if she were being bent in half and lifted 
off her feet. Blood rushed to her face as her head hung lower 
than her heart. Her hands weighed a thousand pounds, it 
seemed, and she let her arms dangle there, above her head...or 
below her head, whichever. Someone embraced her legs a million 
miles away. She guessed she was being carried, not like a 
fairytale princess, but in the undignified position of a 
fireman's carry. Was it Mulder who stole her away?

Blinded by her lightheadedness and the drape of her upside-
down hair, she wanted to cry for help, but her voice wouldn't 
cooperate.

Again she thought of Home, Pennsylvania. Not the Peacock 
brothers or their bizarre, over-protective mother, but 
Mulder's romantic notions about country life. 

//Only place you had to be on time was home for dinner. Never 
had to lock your doors. No modems, no faxes, no cell phones.//

Like here...the Pleistocene, according to Mulder.

//If I had to settle down, build a home...be a place like 
this.//

Had he brought them here on purpose, in search of a simpler 
life? No, that was ridiculous. He was a city boy, despite his 
protestations. That day in Home, he'd been high on "eau de 
baseball."

She took a sniff. No smell of cowhide. Eau de Mulder? He was 
right under her nose. Or maybe she was underneath him? God, 
everything was topsy-turvy.

Usually she hated feeling so muddled. But right now, she felt 
inexplicably calm. Breathing in his familiar scent, she 
allowed herself to fall deeper into the safe haven of his 
shadow.

*   *   *

//Hopes are dashed 
People forget 
Forget they're hiding.// 

Was Mulder singing? 
 
//In a tachyon flux 
Tachyon flux -- it's a put on 
Come on join the party...//

Yes, Mulder was singing...a butchered rendition of The Who's 
"Eminent Front." 

"That isn't how the song goes," she murmured.

"Scully?" 

She felt herself slide from his shoulder. His fingers gripped 
her hips as he lowered her feet to the ground.

"You're awake."

"Yes, I'm awake." She put a hand on his arm for balance and 
looked around. Only the barest hint of sunlight remained, 
outlining the far-off mountains. A quarter moon rose in the 
east, brilliant white against a purple-black sky. A spray of 
stars glittered overhead. Trees dotted the meadow, their 
leaves whispering in the evening breeze. The landscape was 
storybook beautiful. "How long was I...?" She gestured at his 
shoulder.

"Not long."

"We're not going to find water tonight, are we?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Don't be so pessimistic." He 
pointed past her, and she turned to see moonlight on water at 
the bottom of the grassy slope. 

The prospect of a drink drew her forward. She began to walk, 
and then run. Water! Thank God! Sprinting down the hill, she 
suddenly felt as giddy as a child. The cool evening air rushed 
past her ears, swept her hair away from her overly hot 
forehead, filled her eyes with a blur of tears. Each breath 
ballooned her chest with fresh energy. The ground was spongy 
beneath her feet, making her feel weightless, as if she could 
fly, and she could smell the sweet scent of fresh grass with 
every step. 

Fifty yards from the river, she pulled up short. Something was 
moving at the water's edge. Several somethings. She heard the 
splash of water, a muted thud, a chuff of air from large 
lungs.

Mulder caught up with her, and stopped, too, his skin shiny 
with sweat in the moonlight. He raised his binoculars to 
survey the riverbank.

"What are they?" she asked, trying to steady her breathing. 
"Mastodons?"

He lowered the binoculars and dovetailed his fingers with 
hers. "No. Just horses. Not even very big ones. Come on." He 
tugged her toward them. 

As all trace of sunlight vanished from the western sky, stars 
multiplied in the heavens and a mirror image of the moon 
floated on the river's inky surface. Scully could smell the 
water, and the sharp, dusty odor of the horses. 

The horses caught wind of them, too, and moved downstream. At 
the water's edge, she released Mulder's hand and dropped to 
her knees on the grassy bank. She filled her cupped palms. The 
water was cold, numbing her fingers, but tasting delicious. 
She scooped handful after handful into her mouth. Mulder knelt 
beside her and drank greedily, too, before plunging his whole 
head beneath the surface to rinse his hair and scrub at his 
neck.

Raising his head, he waggled his eyebrows and asked, "Wanna go 
skinny dipping?"

As far as she could tell in the dark, the river was about a 
hundred and fifty yards wide, and curved in a giant oxbow. Its 
current appeared to be slow moving. There were no exposed 
boulders and no whitewater rapids.

"We don't know what's in there."

"Nothing, I hope, since we just drank a couple of gallons."

"No, I mean like snapping turtles or the equivalent of 
Pleistocene piranha."

"As long as there are no flukemen." 

He stood, untied his shirt from his waist, and let it drop to 
the ground on top of his jacket. Was he really going to--? He 
removed the binoculars from around his neck and set them 
beside his clothes. 

"No peeking," he warned as he toed off his shoes and 
unfastened his pants.

"You're not--?"

Socks and shorts off, he released a bloodcurdling Tarzan yell, 
and then bulldozed naked into the water.

Well, that was Mulder for you, jumping in feet first. Good to 
know he hadn't changed, even if the rest of the world was 
unrecognizable.

"Whoa! Water's cold! Come on in."

"No thanks."

"Don't know what you're missing." 

He dove beneath the surface as if to prove his point. When his 
head popped back up a moment later, he shook water from his 
hair, and then swam in a leisurely circle several yards out 
from shore. 

Scully wrapped her arms around her knees and watched him roll 
onto his back to float with arms outstretched, his skin gilded 
by moonlight. Fireflies blinked all along the riverbank, 
dancing above the tall reeds. Bullfrogs harrumphed, marking 
territory with their deep base voices. A nervous horse 
whinnied somewhere downstream.

Had they really traveled back in time more than ten thousand 
years? Or was this place a 20th Century Garden of Eden, an 
untouched oasis in an otherwise modern world? Mulder claimed 
to have seen mastodons. But did he know the difference between 
a modern day elephant and a prehistoric one? 

Suppose an elephant or two had escaped from a local zoo, like 
the time Ganesha escaped from its cage in Fairfield, Idaho... 
Wasn't that a more likely explanation than time travel?

Scully suddenly missed her comfortable apartment. A hot bubble 
bath would feel wonderful right now. And some take-out Thai 
food would hit the spot. She mentally added Ibuprofen for her 
headache, scented candles for her nerves, and an interesting 
novel -- maybe Jose Chung's newest thriller -- to take her 
mind off air bases and time travel.

Out in the river, Mulder swam lazily toward shore. He waded 
the last few yards, rising from the river like a merman. Water 
poured from his glistening skin as he returned to her. 
Silhouetted against the moonlit water, liberated from his 
everyday attire, he looked extraordinarily handsome -- lean, 
graceful, even a little dangerous. 

And sexy. 

Blood rose in her cheeks as a pleasant heaviness settled into 
her pelvis. The sight of him was arousing her, she realized, 
and she quickly looked away, averting her stare and feeling 
voyeuristic and a little ashamed of herself. Mulder was her 
partner. Their relationship was based on professional respect. 
She had no right to ogle him.

Hand raised to her temple, she worried she was losing her 
mind. She was feeling dizzy and acting irrationally. Her head 
was pounding.   

She heard him drop down on the grass beside her, and she 
glanced in his direction, being careful to keep her eyes 
leveled above his shoulders. He used his shirt to briskly dry 
himself. 

"No piranha," he said.

"Your teeth are chattering."

"But I smell better." 

He began to dress, so she moved away -- to give him privacy, 
and to wash her face. 

Crouched at the water's edge, she removed her jacket, and 
rolled up her shirtsleeves. Again she filled her hands with 
cold water, but this time she used it to gently clean the gash 
at her hairline. Her forehead felt tender where it had been 
cut. She gently rinsed away grit and dried blood, careful not 
to reopen the wound. 

"Can I help?" Mulder appeared beside her, fully dressed and 
carrying a handkerchief in his hand. "It's clean, I promise." 
He dipped the handkerchief into the water and then used it to 
dab at her wound.

She marveled at the fact he carried something as old-fashioned 
as a handkerchief. It made her realize she knew almost nothing 
about his upbringing. The handkerchief brought to mind an 
image of a well-mannered little boy, dressed and pressed like 
a gentleman, which contradicted her earlier impression of him 
as a hellion -- a daredevil who would jump feet first and buck 
naked into an Ice Age river.

As always, Mulder was difficult to peg.    

"How does it look?" she asked.

"Not too bad." He stroked the area, pushing her hair away from 
the wound. "The mark of an experienced G-Woman."

"Wonderf--" 

She startled when a pair of yellow-green eyes caught her 
attention on the opposite shore. They peered back at her from 
behind a veil of tall weeds. 

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Mulder, look."

"I see it."

She heard him release the snap on his holster and pull out his 
gun. 

"Let's go," he whispered.

"Where?"

"Uphill. Away from here." He gripped her arm and hauled her to 
her feet.

She glanced across the river. The green eyes had vanished. She 
grabbed her coat.

Then a growl sounded -- a large cat of some kind. A splash of 
water told her it was coming after them. Her heart began to 
hammer in her chest. Her legs felt rubbery, her feet numb. 

Mulder yanked hard on her arm. "Hurry! Unless you want to 
become cat food for a saber-toothed tiger."

Saber-toothed tiger? 

The cat suddenly roared, and Scully ran for all she was worth.

*  *  *

Mulder sprinted up the hill, clutching Scully's arm. He could 
hear her gasping for breath. God, please don't let her pass 
out, he thought. How far back was the damn cat?

As soon as they reached the woods, he began searching for a 
tree to climb. He selected a tall, straight evergreen, not too 
big around, but with lots of stout branches.

"Up," he ordered Scully, shoving her through a veil of lower 
limbs. Unsure of the cat's location, he quickly grabbed a 
branch and hauled himself up after her.

"Mulder, I can't see."

"Just climb." 

He heard her scrambling for footholds. 

Grasping her hips, he propelled her higher. 

"Watch your head." 

He scaled several more branches.

"I think I'm about as high as--"

The cat roared beneath them.

"Higher."

"Mul--"

"Go!"

Three, four, five more branches. They were nearing the top; he 
could feel the tree beginning to sway.

Below them, the cat growled. Mulder pushed Scully higher.

Finally, they could go no further and Scully settled on a 
sturdy branch. He perched next to her and dug his flashlight 
from his pocket. Aimed down the trunk of the tree, the light 
reflected in the cat's yellow-green eyes. 

Jesus, the animal was huge -- it looked twice as heavy as a 
modern day lion, although not any taller or longer. Its tail 
was stubby, like a bobcat, but what it lacked on the rear end, 
it more than made up for on the front, where foot-long fangs 
protruded from its enormous upper jaw. No doubt they could rip 
open a man's belly with one swipe. 

It was an honest-to-fucking-goodness saber-toothed tiger. 

"Must be the kitty chow," he commented.

Scully sat shivering between him and the tree trunk. He 
wrapped his gun arm around her to secure himself to her and 
the tree. With his other hand, he kept his light aimed at the 
cat.

"Can it climb up here?" Scully asked.

"If it tries, it won't get past *this*." He waggled his gun.

She glanced at the weapon. "Don't drop it."

"When have I ever dropped my gun?"

She said nothing. After a few moments of silence, he angled 
his flashlight at her face, revealing her skeptical 
expression. She arched one graceful eyebrow.

"Never," he argued.

Her other eyebrow climbed to join the first.

He turned the flashlight back on the cat. "Not while sitting 
in a tree."

Suddenly the cat lunged upward and positioned itself on the 
bottommost branch. The tree shook, and Mulder and Scully both 
gasped.

He leveled his gun at the cat. The motion put her off balance, 
and she caught herself by latching onto his thigh, squeezing 
hard.

"Not that I'm objecting, Scully, but now may not be the best 
time," he whispered, indicating her hand with a tilt of his 
head.

"I just...I didn't want to fall." She released him.

They watched the cat balance on its hind legs, while it 
searched with its forepaws for a higher perch.

"You won't fall," he assured her, hugging his arm around her 
again. "I won't let you." 

The cat jumped back to the ground and resumed its pacing.

"There. You see? Nothing to worry about."

"We could still fall out of the tree in our sleep," she said.

"I won't be sleeping." He tracked the cat with his light. 

"Maybe you should sing," she suggested. "That way, I'll know 
you're awake." She leaned into him. Her trembling seemed 
worse. 

Okay, he'd sing. Just to keep her mind off their predicament. 
Hell, to keep *his* mind off their predicament. He cleared his 
throat. 

"Mulder and Scully, sitting in a tree, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G." 

He shined his light at her to see her reaction.

She shook her head. "In your dreams, Mulder." 

He smiled, and continued his sing-songy rhyme, "First comes 
loooove..." 

He lightly tapped the tip of her nose with his flashlight, 
making her frown. She batted his hand away. 

"Then comes marriage..." 

She still refused to smile. 

"And then comes Mulder with a baby carriage," he finished 
quickly.

"Isn't that supposed to be 'and then comes *Scully* with a 
baby carriage?'"

"I'm a man of the 90s, Scully."

"Ah." After a minute of silence, she asked, "Mulder, are you 
afraid?"

"Nope," he lied.

"It doesn't worry you that we may be thousands of years from 
where we're supposed to be?"

Oh yeah, there was that pesky time travel thing. "Who says 
we're not supposed to be right here?"

"In a tree? With a tiger waiting to devour us the moment we 
fall?"

"I told you, we're not going to fall." 

Tucking her more firmly into the crook of his arm, he decided 
to sing some more. Something appropriate for the occasion. 
Something like...  

"I see a bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way--"

"Oh, brother."


CONTINUED IN 2/22...