TITLE:       Egypt, Under Pharaoh (A Song of Plague)
AUTHOR:      David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY:    S, A, R 
KEYWORDS:    MSR, Post-Col, CD (non-violent)
RATING:      PG-13
REFERENCES:  Tithonus, all things, TFWID 
SUMMARY:     He's the last of his kind. Of them, there are 
             thousands upon thousands.
ARCHIVE:     Ephemeral/Gossamer, ok. Others, by request.
DISCLAIMER:  No profiteering here. Move along.    
FEEDBACK:    dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com



Mashantucket-Pequot Reservation
Spring, 2021

He sits in the shade of a gnarled stand of trees in the lee of 
a hill, a poor man's oasis in the middle of the Atlantic wastes, 
in what was once Connecticut. On a clear day, he has a view many 
miles to the south, of bygone seaports and whalers, and the 
life-bringing sea. But, it is rarely clear, anymore. 

For amusement, he can climb to the crest of the hill, high up by 
local standards, and view the incongruous splendor of a casino, 
whose finest days are also long past. Foxwoods. The irony of the 
name weighs heavier on him some days than others. He's considered 
changing the name, and has rejected the notion. He would always 
know. And besides, who is there left to fool? He's considered 
leaving the vicinity. But where else would he prefer to be? 

Finally, it comes down to one thing. This is where their long 
journey came to a quiet and dignified end. And for that alone he 
will stay put, irony be damned.

Insofar as he knows, he is the last. 

"She always said you were one of a kind. Well, whaddyaknow? She 
sure knew what she was talking about. Here you are, the "Last Man 
on Earth." 

The fabulous title makes him laugh. That is a rare and unpleasant 
sound these days, scratchy and wheezing; a laugh in serious 
disrepair. But he has no incentive to fix it.

The last man. He's compiled no scientific basis for the conclusion, 
except for this: It's been years since he's seen anyone else. And 
that? Is just as well. He's made a home here, dug right into the 
side of the hill, overlooking the grove below. The furniture and 
supplies for his dwelling, he's borrowed from the casino on an 
as-needed basis. In this way, he's managed to achieve a measure of 
relative - if a shade tacky - comfort. It pleases him, at this late 
date, to have reacquired a black leather sofa. He never sleeps on 
it; at his age, he's become quite accustomed to the comfort of an 
actual mattress and box-spring. In fact, he rarely sits on the 
grained, cool surface. The sofa is important to him not as a piece 
of furniture, but as a visual cue to the past, to a specific time 
in his past. It is a black, oblong memorial that he visits several 
times a day, and remembers. Maya Lin would be proud.

Most important in the cause of memory and memorial, however, is 
the position of the house itself, standing watch over the grove, 
unstinting in its vigil.

Until recently, there have been no visitors whatsoever to his 
realm, human or otherwise, Terrestrial or not. That's to be 
expected, considering. In the last three weeks, however, to his 
great surprise, that has changed. His hill, his grove, his home 
is now teeming with life. The visitors have appeared by the 
thousands, and by the thousands of thousands. They've come to 
this grove, he suspects, because it is the only gathering of 
trees for many miles around. Their arrival has been a surprise, 
yes, even a shock. But they aren't unwelcome. Thanks to them, 
he once again knows the year.

*********************

eastern shore of Maryland
Spring, 2004 

"They are *not* locusts, Mulder!"

Scully is astonished at her partner's irrational discomfort. An 
insect has fallen from the branch above, an uninvited guest to 
their picnic lunch. Without lifting his rear-end off the blanket, 
Mulder scoots away from it, his long legs bunching, then thrusting 
out, propelling him back against the tree. With each scooch, he 
pushes the blanket into tall, rounded folds that eventually topple 
over on themselves, burying food and interloper alike, leaving a 
rivulet of iced tea to flow from one of the valleys, a toppled 
pitcher the hidden font of the stream. 

The sight of his crab-like escape prompts delighted laughter 
from the normally restrained Scully. Her amusement prompts 
annoyance from the normally unflappable Mulder. He sits straight 
up, protest at the ready, but, in so doing, bangs his head 
painfully against the trunk. 

"Ohhh, did you bark your head?"

He grabs the back of his skull in one hand, and says, "You can 
bark your shin, but you can't bark anything else, Scully."

"I think you just did."

He turns to inspect the offending place on the tree, rubbing the 
ridged bark. As the meaning of what she's just said dawns, he 
turns back to glare at her.

Scully kneels, finally, to lend aid and comfort. "Are you," one 
hand politely hiding her smile and partially stifling her laugh. 
"Are you okay, Mulder?" she manages to ask.

"No, I am not!" 

Scully mouths a sympathetic "aw," and leans in to check for injury 
other than to his pride. Mulder bows his head compliantly, calmed 
by her touch. Suddenly, he shoots to his feet, brushing the front 
of his t-shirt and jeans wildly with both hands. 

"Gah! Damned bugs!"

Two more insect invaders complete their fall - from the tree, 
onto Mulder and, then, to the ground. He moves to crush them 
underfoot.

"Ah, ah!" Scully cries. "Mulder, don't do that."

Her admonition is too late to stop him from trying, but Mulder 
succeeds only in pushing the pests into the soft grass. He paces 
several yards from the spot and looks up, scanning the canopy of 
the woods. 

From her knees, Scully takes in her partner in one long, lazy 
glance, starting at his feet and meandering up. He's rangy and 
graceful, loose-limbed and resilient. He may bend and bow with 
the storms they have and will yet face, but he will never break. 
By God, she thinks, he is magnificent. Every bit as magnificent as 
the oaks and sycamores all around them.  Though, at the moment, 
he's just one more titan in the forest bedeviled by insects. 

Neither of them can spot more than a handful in the trees, but 
they hear multitudes. A steady, throbbing, clacking buzz.

Scully surveys the ruins of their picnic. "Hey, Gulliver. Get over 
here, and give me a hand with this shipwreck. We'll move it out so 
that your half is under the sun and sky, where all the Lilliputians 
won't bother you as much." 

He seems to notice the havoc he's caused as if for the first time. 
Mulder kneels down quickly beside her, and ends up doing the bulk 
of the cleaning up and moving. On one point, though, he will not 
be moved.

"They are, too, locusts," he says, lifting his brows in the 
direction of the trees.

"Mulder," she begins, but her reproof is mild.

"Come on, Scully. Give it up! They have hard exoskeletons, jointed 
legs and proportionately large wings. They swarm in the thousands, 
and they're loud as hell. They're locusts!"

"And I'll say it again, Mulder," she says, brushing invisible dirt 
off a corn muffin and slathering it in raspberry jam. "They're not 
locusts. They're cicadas."

"Well, well, *Doctor* Scully. Then what do you say to this?" Mulder 
rummages through a duffle bag retrieved from the trunk of the car 
and produces a rumpled newspaper, rescued that morning from the 
trash outside the market where they'd bought lunch. Just below the 
fold on the front page, a two-day old headline reads, 

"Seventeen-Year Locusts Return."

She scans the paragraphs beneath, and smiles. "Have you read the 
article?"

Mulder pauses for a moment before suspicion rises up to smite 
his sense of security. He snatches the paper from her hand and 
begins reading aloud. "Tourists flocking to the Eastern Shore this 
Summer will have to share their stay... so-called seventeen-year 
locusts," he says triumphantly, then slows."...properly known as 
cicadas... a deafening roar at the height of the mating season..." 
He tosses the paper aside, and begins to pick at some food. "I'm 
still partly right."

"You were born and raised on the East coast. Where were you in 
the summer of 1970, Mulder, that you've never heard of cicadas? 
They were all over eastern Maryland that Summer. I remember, and 
I was just six."

He shrugs, and picks up a cold ear of corn-on-the-cob, taking a 
tentative nibble and, finding it delicious, two or three quick, 
hungry chomps. "That was the summer Sam got hurt. Uh, I think I 
got sent to camp. I was kind of a loner back then; stayed in my 
room a lot, didn't go out to play with friends." Scully snorts, 
but doesn't interrupt. "My mother claimed I needed a good dose of 
fresh air and sunshine. I had the sneaking suspicion she just 
wanted me out of the house. Anyway, she shipped me off to a summer 
camp on a lake near Rutland, Vermont. As I recall, it rained the 
entire time."

Scully gives him a rueful smile; she's certain his memory is 
sound. It all checks with the man he's become. She aches for the 
boy past, not because of the rain, but because of his exile.

"On the plus side," he says, "I'm a whiz with Popsicle stick arts 
and crafts. Give me a bag of five-hundred and a bottle of Elmer's 
Glue-All, and I can whip you up a dandy salad bowl. Ten of those 
bags and I'll make you a complete dining room suite. And, if I 
had an unlimited number of sticks?" He rubs his hands together 
and gives a comically evil laugh. "Y'know, there was a time, 
Scully...." 

Mulder pauses when he notices her wry look. She's on to him. Again. 

"Three words: Popsicle stick Levittown."

"Yep. You'd have made quite the mogul," she says, passing him 
some fresh coleslaw. Life on the lam with her has inured him 
inexorably to 'rabbit food.' "What about the next time? 1987?"

He pauses to think about it, still chewing a mouthful of slaw. A 
white drop of juice appears on his lip, and Scully reaches over 
impulsively to wipe it off with a napkin.

"My first year out of the Academy. I don't remember much about that 
time of my life except for the work. I was trying pretty hard to 
impress Bill Patterson, of all people."

"Hmm." Scully nods at the irony. "Well, in 1987, I was starting my 
second year of med school. So, quite honestly, I don't remember 
that one, either."

At the mention of her med school days, as he always does, Mulder 
loses himself envisioning the young, industrious student Scully. 
Primly eschewing invitations to party - "I'm so sorry. I've got 
too much studying to do for Monday." Going home for the odd break, 
only to be shown off like a prize winning pet by her parents. Dana, 
our doctor-to-be. Finally, falling under the thrall of an ivory 
tower lothario named Waterston. And that thought, as always, snaps 
him back to the here and now.

Scully is explaining about the cyclic nature of the cicadas' 
existence, and how that and the benign aspect to their time above 
ground differentiates them from actual locusts. 

"Cicadas don't want to eat our picnic, Mulder. They don't want 
crops or even the leaves off the trees. They just want each other."

Mulder notices that something about the subject, quite possibly the 
very science of it, is making her playful and uncharacteristically 
bawdy.

"It's really very simple. They come out of their shells, they 
flirt, they mate. Basically, they're born wanting to do it. Kind 
of like me!"

He laughs out loud, a rich and easy baritone tattoo. "Oh, ho, ho, 
right! You were born wanting to do it, were you?"

"Well," she says, rolling onto her stomach and insinuating a hand 
up under the hem of his t-shirt. "After you brought me out of my 
shell, yes!"

He leans back onto his elbows, to ease her way.

"So, what are you trying to tell me, Scully? That you're part 
cicada?" He's rewarded with a breathtaking, predatory smile he 
knows is for him only. He loves the way the tip of her tongue peeks 
out and curves over her teeth.

"Now wouldn't that be something?" she says, sliding her hands over 
his chest, and pulling them back down, stiff-armed, her body 
arching, bottom in the air.

"I guess," Mulder says, his eyes closing and reopening  languidly. 
She is, in his opinion, more feline than cicada, by far. "Problem 
is, Scully, cicadas can sing."

She's heard that old canard her life-long and is ready to put it 
to rest. "Oh, I can sing all right," she replies, her fingers 
following the downy trail of hair on his belly. "I just have to find 
the right motivation." She throws a leg over his middle, scattering 
the remnants of their lunch onto the grass, a gift for the ants.

*********************

Mashantucket-Pequot Reservation
Summer, 2021

There are no ants any longer. If he thinks about it, scans the 
storehouse of scientific knowledge he's received over the many 
years of their partnership, he might be able to come up with an 
explanation for the phenomenon. Probably has something to do with 
poor soil health, he decides, but isn't really sure. He is certain 
of one thing, however. He never knew soil had health of any sort 
until she told him so.

The early years of their "retirement," as he referred to the 
aftermath of their flight from the Bureau, were anything but 
leisurely. They struggled to live "off the grid," all the while 
preparing for a future that was barreling down on them with 
frightening speed. They planned as best they could, on the broadest 
scale possible, and on human terms - the only terms they knew. From 
a history of invasion and resistance, of victories and defeats, they 
planned to counter the alien colonization with resistance, and 
mapped out the markers of progress against a superior foe. The 
questions they asked were prosaic. What force could they mobilize, 
and how quickly? What munitions could they assemble, and how 
effective would they be? The answers were scarcely more exciting, 
but comforting - something they could plan around and count on.

But, they'd prepared for the wrong future. Based on the wrong 
historical record. He knows this now, sitting in the lee of his 
hill, above the solitary grove.

He'd gotten them into the junk business for several years, 
salvaging every last ounce of magnetite from discarded audio 
equipment, cell phones and computers, then lacing bullets with 
veins of the extract. "Junk to cache," and "Transistors and 
resistors," were two of his private slogans for the business 
that, sadly, went unused. 

There was no struggle for control of the planet, he thinks 
bitterly, as if that would have altered the outcome. No 
resistance. They came and went before anyone knew what was 
happening.

Colonists. Pfft. What a misnomer. He pauses to consider where he'd 
first heard the term. Had he come up with it on his own, or heard 
it sneered off the lips of the human conspirators? It's really too 
bad, he thinks, that none of those cocksuckers survived to see it 
through. To learn that they'd been the butt of the biggest practical 
joke in cosmic history. He conjures up one image in particular, 
and pastes an astonished expression on it, holds it in the air 
for a second, then lets it vanish like smoke.

Oh, he concedes, They wanted the planet, all right, and humanity 
in particular. He picks up a piece of fused sand and skips it down 
the hill. "They didn't come to colonize." His voice is unsteady at 
first, gaining confidence and volume with use. "They didn't come to 
conquer and enslave." He stops to spit. "They came to strip-mine."

Humanity was simply the first resource harvested. They stripped 
the Earth of entire biota, in order to gather a single plant or 
animal species in sufficient quantity. The ecosystem staggered 
with the loss, its latticework interdependency shattered. The Earth 
withered in places and died in many others. And there was almost 
no one left to stop it from happening.

They lifted entire deposits of ore from the Earth's crust, their 
selections defying human comprehension.

"They took all the goddamn sulfur.," he yells, rising to his feet. 
"Why? Why in the hell take all the sulfur?"

He toes the dirt, seeking traces of yellow powder. As if finding 
none would be conclusive proof of their theft.

His breathing is labored. From age. From hardship. From standing.

"Too much second-hand smoke," he's joked more times than he cares 
to count. 

In truth, the blame for this lies with Them. In dredging the planet 
of its riches, They altered the atmosphere, neatly shearing several 
layers off into space. In the nine years since, survivors have been 
forced to ration strenuous activity, such as gathering food, and 
limit their exposure to the furious sun, no matter how many 
protective layers of clothing they can manage to don. Countless 
hundreds have died simply because they couldn't find adequate 
shelter during the middle of the day.

Patches of green, much like his, are scattered randomly across the 
blasted earth. In these oases, breathing is easier, but only just. 
It makes no difference on days like this one, when the ozone is 
sharp and the air, even near sea-level, is frighteningly thin.

"They shifted the climate!" he yells out to the treetops. "And 
while you were sleeping? They stole the goddamn air, too!" While 
he tries to quiet his heaving chest, he wonders whether he said 
"dadgum" instead of "goddamn." It is one of the strange, persistent 
fears he harbors about turning sixty.

"They defeated the will of Nature herself," he says more softly. 
"Makes you wonder what help can there be for Earth? But, you don't 
seem to mind oxygen-lite, do you?" He envies the moxie of the 
insect chorus, and takes heart in their vitality. "No, you seem to 
be doing just fine. Well, good for you. Good for you."

"We," he begins, intending himself and his partner, and everyone 
else who knew the truth, "were wrong about Them. 'Colonists,' hell! 
They came. They raped. And, then?" His laughter is choked with 
bitterness and anguish. "They left." Memories of dark months wash 
over him until, resistor to the end, he volleys one last, defiant 
salvo. "They were, they were nothing more than locusts. A mindless, 
soulless plague of goddamn locusts."

He hangs his head to wipe the sweat from his brow and to shade his 
face. It's past time to take his vigil indoors. "We got so many 
things wrong. Except for the date. No, that we got right. The Fall 
of Earth happened right on schedule."

He is stooped by the years and the pitiless labors of the last age 
of man, but his spirit is unbowed. The Last Man lifts the mesh from 
around the brim of his straw hat, and smiles to the treetops. 

He has reconsidered his stand on one thing, however. They may have 
ravaged the planet, but They couldn't stop the singing of the 
cicadas. He tips his hat to them as he leaves for the day. Maybe, 
thanks to you, Earth did win, after all. You outlasted Them. Hell, 
you've outlasted most everything. He bows as grandly as he's able. 
You might even outlast me. With a smile, he shuffles indoors. 
Seated by the window, he'll keep vigil over the grove right along 
with them,  long into the star-washed night.

********************

Mashantucket - Pequot Reservation
Late March, 2017

They've ridden for days with scant rest, her condition worsening 
with every mile. They're sitting front to back astride a chestnut 
gelding, a strong and mannerly animal. The ride has been fairly 
smooth, the more so since Mulder mastered the rudiments of 
communication between rider and mount. The one thing it hasn't been 
is swift, though the gelding is not to blame. First and foremost, 
progress has been slowed by the old dray horse tethered behind and 
burdened with their supplies, the sum of their worldly belongings. 
Second, the road has been a rocky one - literally and figuratively - 
for horse and riders. 

Those are not the reasons they're stopping in this particular spot, 
however. Nor are they stopping out of dire need, though he can feel 
her weakening. She's ridden the entire way strapped to her pillion, 
her arms around his middle and her head resting on his back. Over 
the past several hours, the pressure of her arms on his waist has 
grown feather-light, and the weight of her head ever heavier on his 
shoulder. They're shielded from head to foot in Mylar ponchos. At 
the outset, Scully said that, in his poncho, he reminded her of a 
Hershey's Kiss. They reminisced about the taste and the simple 
pleasure of the bygone treat for the first hour or two of the 
journey.

Like tourists of old, they are stopping here because a roadside 
attraction has drawn their attention. 

"Trees. Look, Mulder!" It is the first time since early morning that 
she's spoken. "Are there really trees?"

Scully is too weak to walk, even with assistance. So, Mulder carries 
her over to the grove and sets her down gently on a bed of moss at 
the base of the tallest and broadest of the trees. As if it were a 
favor and not a necessity, she thanks him and smiles up into the 
boughs. They're not going to make their original destination, and 
it tears at him to let her down like this. But she assures him that 
she is not disappointed. Because there are trees.

*******************

There was a time, not long past, of incredible abundance, when 
little of real value was rare. Not trees, certainly, nor people. 
It was difficult to envision, then; to appreciate what of the 
world's bounty would be missed most, in the time after. By early 
February, Twenty Thirteen, little more than a month after C-day, 
the incessant trembling of the ground had ceased and, with it, 
the strange whine, like the wrenching of metallic pipe, emanating 
from the very core of the Earth. Colonization appeared to be a 
fete-accompli. It was time for humanity to rise from the mine 
shafts and emerge from the caves onto a changed landscape, and 
begin its heroic resistance. 

Mulder and Scully had prepared their resistance cell for the 
most probable scenarios, each down to the smallest detail. They 
were outfitted in part with a fleet of fifty-year-old vehicles; 
clunkers that looked as if they might fall apart at any minute. 
But Mulder knew that, without the technological benefit of 
electronic ignitions or on-board computers,  the opening 
electro-magnetic salvo of the invasion would pass these vehicles 
by; the dinosaurs from Detroit would emerge unscathed, up and 
running. The simpler engines could be repaired in the field, 
with scrounged parts, by amateur mechanics. Mulder, Scully and 
the members of their cell were confident, not cocky, in their 
preparedness. They were ready for the devastation they expected 
to find and, moreover, for the enemy they expected to confront. 

They were prepared for almost every eventuality, save for what 
greeted them when they poked their heads above ground. The 
colonists had gone, and they'd taken Earth's climate and natural 
resources with them.

With no enemy to face, no conqueror to resist, their cell had 
dissolved and, by consensus, gone their separate ways. Mulder 
and Scully headed north, settling first in the Canadian 
Maritimes and then farther inland, across the plains of 
Newfoundland and the mountains of Maine, as the sea-level rose. 
They chose a relatively verdant site in old Quebec, one that, 
by chance, had neither been mined nor blistered into desert. 
During the second summer, the corrosive salt-air finally did in 
the half-century old pick-up. By then, however, they'd 
established a base level of subsistence, farming the rocky soil. 
They'd put down roots, Mulder joked. They foresaw no further 
need for the pick-up. 

For five years, they called that place home. Then, Scully fell 
sick. It was a respiratory infection - mild bronchitis, she 
declared. Before, such an ailment wouldn't have kept her on 
bed-rest for more than a week. But these were not the days of 
ready antibiotics. This was not the Before.

"It's just an errand," she told him. "A run to the store." The 
problem was, neither knew where the appropriate 'store' might be, 
nor even whether one existed. He refused to leave her side until 
the fever had ebbed, and until, to his satisfaction, she could 
both stomach solid food and hold a shotgun with a steady hand. 
Even then, he was dubious. 

"We need to stockpile more medicine, Mulder. Against the time 
something like this happens again, to me or to you."

As insistent as Scully was that he go, still she suggested he 
take the horse. "It's faster than walking." An incontrovertible 
point, to be sure, if he'd had any riding experience at all. In 
the end, hiking on foot proved faster than fighting a horse for 
dominance. He led it into the woods and out of her sight, then 
tethered it to a tree to await his return. 

Late in the day, struggling up the scree of a hill in the brutal 
heat, Mulder sensed he was close to his destination. A run to 
the store, it might turn out to be as simple as that. All well 
and good, because it brought him just that much closer to 
returning home, to Scully. 

From the crest, he should have been within sight of the place, 
a former mill town named Sherbrooke, set atop the hump-backed 
landscape. Sweat beaded on his brow and stung his eyes, from 
the effort of the climb. Several times, he slipped on the scree, 
sliding back down and having to scrape to regain his vantage. 

Try as he might, Mulder could not seem to spot the town. Then, 
on the verge of giving up after one last backslide, he found it. 
In the bits of frosted glass that cut his palms as he slid, and 
the asphalt rubble and concrete chunks that made his footing 
treacherous on the way back up. 

Sherbrooke. 

He slammed his fists against the ground. There would be no 
medicines gathered on this errand.

By the time Mulder returned late into the evening, Scully had 
relapsed. She lay pale in the light of an oil lamp, drenched 
in sweat and exhausted, on the downside of a fever spike. 
Without recourse to more effective remedies, he simply held her 
fast. He could do little else. Through the next day and into 
the night, he never left her side, forcing fluids into her to 
keep her hydrated. Finally, she stopped her fitful tossing and 
slept through til midday. 

"Mulder." 

"Hey!" Studied nonchalance. "Welcome back, Scully."

"Why? Have I gone somewhere recently?" 

She passed out for another hour or so, seemingly exhausted by 
the effort of the quip. She woke to his face floating above her. 
He looked pained.

"Scully, I didn't, I wasn't able to..."

She raised an unsteady finger to his lips.

"I want to go home, Mulder."

He checked her for feverishness, but she was cooler now, and 
clear-eyed.

Home. It was irrational, and most certainly ill-advised. 
Maryland wasn't there anymore, at least not in any form she'd 
recognize. The trip itself might kill her. But Scully was ill 
and might not recover, and she wanted to go home. In the time 
he'd known her, she'd asked for so little, while he'd asked 
everything of her. It had been a long time since he'd been 
capable of refusing her anything.

*******************
Mashantucket -Pequot Reservation
Late March, 2017

"D'you remember that picnic, Mulder?"

He is busy constructing a lean-to and doesn't catch the reference 
at first. "Which picnic was that, Scully? You'll have to be more 
specific. There was a while there when Al Fresco was our constant 
dining companion."

She's quiet, smiling up into the trees, so still that, for a 
moment, he's terrified.

"Scully!"

She turns her head and smiles. "A cicada. Fell on you. You 
were, Mulder, you were freaked!"

He laughs, a mixture of memory and relief. "Says you!" But he 
shakes his head, ruefully. "I thought it was a locust, one that 
had my name on it for sure. After that, I was afraid it might 
be after our corn-on-the-cob." He kneels down beside her and 
looks up. To share what she is seeing. "We brought it straight 
from that stand. Do you remember?" He can see them buying it, 
hear the young farmhand's admonition to eat the corn that very 
afternoon, if possible.

"Oh. Yes. It was, it was so sweet."

She's in a spot shaded from the brute fury of the sun, and seems 
comfortable enough. Mulder leaves her in the company of her 
memories, and goes to finish the shelter and retrieve some food 
for each of them. 

When he returns, she speaks without moving her gaze from the boughs. 

"The photographer. Mulder, what was his name? The one who thought 
he'd cheated death."

It takes him a moment to retrieve the information. "Fellig? What 
about him?"

"He was wrong." She's smiling. Beaming. "He was wrong!" Laughing. 
"Oh, thank God, he was wrong."

Mulder tries to feed her spoonfuls of pureed winter squash but, 
after three or four bites, she stops responding to the touch of 
the spoon. Mulder wipes an amber dribble from her chin. She turns 
to look at him, blinking into the brightness. There is gray, he 
notices, now, among the auburn.

"You're an oak, Mulder. Always have been. My oak," she says 
softly, but with conviction. She hasn't the strength for an 
explanation, and he doesn't press for one.

He gathers her into his arms, content that he's meant something 
to her, something important, whatever she may choose to call it. 
The regular rise and fall of her breathing comforts him. How like 
her, he thinks, a person in her condition, to offer comfort rather 
than ask for it.  

After a time, her breathing quiets and her chest stills.  Her 
expression will ever be one of relief.

One soft moment, Scully is in his arms, and the next, only in 
his heart.

*******************

Mashantucket - Pequot Reservation
Autumn, 2021

He feels wistful for the few that remain, singing their songs of 
love. A touch of melancholy for them, that's all. What if one 
chirps a mating call in the forest, and there's no one left to 
hear it? But, no, things are not that desperate. There is still 
a chorus of them, even if their numbers have dwindled. And there's 
still a wood in which to sing. No small thing, these days. So, no. 
He doesn't feel sorry for them, these few, these wallflowers. He's 
saving that for the very last of them left to sing. The soloist. 
Now, that he understands.

The chorus is noticeably less raucous. But, he's grateful that 
there are any left at all to serenade him, even a few. Where, he 
wonders idly, have all the others gone? Did all their songs draw 
rave reviews, earn them mates and trips to greener fields, or 
whatever afterlife it is that cicadas dream?

But, shouldn't the ones who are left be the most desirable, from 
an evolutionary perspective? They are, after all, the survivors, 
the hardiest of the lot. But, there's something flawed about that 
reasoning, though he can't seem to muster the curiosity to follow 
it through to the end. Something about the last kids to be picked 
for a ball team, and the meek never really inheriting the earth. 
Still, he wishes it were so. Hah! A world full of awkward, nerdy 
cicadas. Well, there are worse fates that could befall a planet.

It has been a tough season, even by post-modern standard. In 
high summer, the enormous heat prevented him from venturing out 
to visit the grove, except in the cool of the night. Some time 
around Labor Day, he figures, though he could be off by as much 
as a month either way, the casino caught fire and burned. For 
days, nearly a week, the glow lit the night-sky on his side of 
the hill. Embers would flutter overhead from time to time, 
landing on the grass roof of his dwelling and, worse, heading for 
the grove. 

Those few days were the most anxious of times. He could only 
watch from his windows, a pail of water, all he could carry, at 
the ready. At the first spark or wisp of smoke, he would dash 
headlong into the crackling heat, a one-man bucket brigade facing 
an implacable foe. Nights, he took a more proactive stance, 
filling and refilling the bucket, dousing his roof and splashing 
every inch of the grove that could be reached. For seventy-two 
hours, he did not sleep.  

Then, Providence took pity on him, and the winds shifted. The 
casino's death throes continued to light the night sky, but 
its embers wafted away to the northwest. With the reprieve, he 
collapsed from exhaustion, and Foxwoods burned to the ground 
in peace.

He was relieved, perhaps more than he cares to admit, that his 
chirping companions had survived the conflagration right 
alongside him. It's nice to have someone to talk to, even if that 
'one' is a swarm of insects. 

It's not exactly conversation, but it is an exchange of sorts. 
They sing, he speaks.  They even stop to listen when he speaks. 
Damned polite, he thinks. Still, he wants to hear as much of their 
singing as possible. He rations his speeches to intermissions 
only. When their concert ends, there won't be an encore for 
another seventeen years. 

Seventeen years. It seems like such a short time past that he 
and Scully were serenaded by the cousins of those singing above 
him now. And yet, their return seems impossibly distant. Can it 
truly be the same span of years ahead, as behind? 

The past has been close at hand in other ways, too, of late. His 
life in retrospect. It's been educational in some ways - he's 
learned that, like Scully, he could have done without that flukeman 
thing, as well. Unlike Scully, there are many things that he'd 
change, given half the chance. He's always been headstrong in his 
approach and breakneck in pace, dragging life along like a 
streamer trailing out behind him. It is the sort of existence in 
which regrets are inevitable, and he is man enough to acknowledge 
them, one by one. Most, it comes as no surprise, concern Scully.

He rues the pain she suffered in order that he could continue 
to enjoy the privilege of her presence. He can atone for precious 
few of these regrets. He's determined nonetheless to make what 
amends he can, telling her each of the things in their life 
together that he would have done differently, to have made her 
life richer, easier, more in keeping with her girlhood dreams. 

It is an exhaustive process, in every sense of the word. When 
he finishes, he is suffused with a sense of peace.

There is, however, one more set of amends he needs to make.

"I misjudged you, at first," he says aloud.

Not all of his regrets concern Scully. He looks upward.

"I think I drew a direct analogy between you and a biblical 
plague. Sorry about that. You've turned out to be fairly 
decent company. And I've since learned what a plague truly is."

He's caught up in his memories for a time, returning to the 
conversation with a lopsided, some might say rakish, smile.

"Oh, and I owe you for inspiring for that whole mating ritual 
routine of Scully's. Owe you big time." More memories, and an 
even more rakish grin. "Seventeen years ago and, still, it's as 
if it happened yesterday."

It may be his imagination playing tricks but, after receiving 
that bit of praise, the cicadas seem to sing with brio. 

"Hey. Do any of you know 'Happy Birthday to You'? C'mon, 
everybody knows that one."

He listens for a minute, then speaks again. 

"No? Oh, well. See, I think today might be my birthday. Or, 
near enough, anyway."

Sixty. How long, he wonders, would he have lived if the plague 
had not come, if the plunder of Earth had not happened? Maybe 
not even this long. 

"Incredible, but true, as they used to say." 

They used to say a lot of things, he muses, but this one might 
actually apply. His job, his former profession, was one that, 
on occasion, wagered one's life-expectancy on a roll of the dice. 
His own inner drive, an ungovernable passion, had him on the 
road to stroke, or heart attack, or both, no matter how fit he 
tried to stay.

How long had he expected to live, back then? It's a good 
question. He can't recall once considering it. He was busy 
moving in too many directions at once, to have considered the 
end of the line. Just long enough, he supposes to be the answer 
he would have given, if pressed. 

And, now? He sits to consider this, in the shade of the tallest 
tree in the grove, in his accustomed spot. He will go on happily 
among the countless days until, on one, he imagines, he will, 
like the casino, just cease to be. He neither fears nor yearns 
for that moment, only prepares for its coming.

He has quite the full schedule in the months ahead, so he hopes 
he is given at least that long. There are provisions to be 
salvaged from smoking ruins of the casino - solar panels, copper 
pipe, dry goods, wire. He will need to add an extra layer of 
insulating sod to the roof, to repair the layer desiccated by 
the summer's heat. Although it doesn't seem possible in this heat, 
the winter storms, howling blasts of sleet and sand, are just 
over the horizon.

There are farewells to be made. For, even if he still presides 
over this grove in seventeen years, when the cicadas next take 
their places in the choir-loft and begin their ages-old song, 
the chorus will be comprised of a completely new set of singers.

And, just in case, he will check and recheck the soundness of 
the spot he has prepared for himself in the grove, at Scully's 
side. As it should be.

-end-