Free The X-Files: Antibodies by Kevin J. Anderson

would be an irrevocable act. He couldn’t just go to the drugstore and get the antidote.
    But the thought of how those men had betrayed him, how they meant to kill him and tidy up all their problems, gave him the determination he needed.
    After Dorman added the activation hormone and the self-perpetuating carrier fluid, the prototypes were supposed to adapt, reset their programming.
    With a small whumpp , a Molotov cocktail exploded in the lobby, and then came running feet. He heard hushed voices in quiet discussion that sounded cool and professional—a contrast to the chanting and yelling that continued outside, the protests Dorman knew were staged.

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    T H E X - F I L E S
    Quickly, silently, Dorman injected himself, just before David Kennessy returned to his side. Now the lead researcher finally looked afraid, and with good reason.
    Four of the gunshots struck Kennessy in the chest, driving him backward into the lab tables. Then the DyMar building erupted into flames—much faster than Jeremy Dorman could have imagined.
    He tried to escape, but even as he fled, the flames swept along, closing in on him as the walls ignited.
    The shock wave of another large explosion pummeled him against one of the concrete basement walls. The stairwell became a chute of fire, searing his skin. He had watched his flesh bubble and blacken. Dorman shouted with outrage at the betrayal. . . .
    Now he awoke screaming under the bridge. The echoes of his outcry vibrated against the river water, ricocheting across the river and up under the bridge.
    Dorman hauled himself to his feet. His eyes adjusted to the dim illumination of streetlights and the moon filtering through clouds above. His body twisted and contorted. He could feel the growths squirming in him, seething, taking on a life of their own.
    Dorman clenched his teeth, brought his elbows tight against his ribs, struggling to regain control. He breathed heavily through his nostrils. The air was cold and metallic, soured with the memory of burning blood.
    As he swayed to his feet, Dorman looked down at the rock embankment where he had slept so fitfully.
    There he saw the bodies of five pigeons, wings splayed, feathers ruffled, their eyes glassy gray. Their beaks hung open with a trickle of blood curling down from their tongues.
    Dorman stared at the dead birds, and his stomach clenched, turning a somersault with nausea. He didn’t antibodies
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    know what his body had done, how he had lost control during his nightmares. Only the pigeons knew.
    A last gray feather drifted to the ground in silence.
    Dorman staggered away, climbing up toward the road. He had to get out of Portland. He had to find his quarry, find the dog, before it was too late for any of them.

    TWELVE
    Main Post Office
    Milwaukie, Oregon
    Wednesday, 10:59 A.M.
    Mulder didn’t feel at all nondescript or X unnoticeable as he and Scully stood in the lobby of the main post office. They moved back and forth, pretending to wait in line, then going back to the counter and filling out unnecessary Express Mail forms. The postal officials at the counter watched them warily.
    All the while, Scully and Mulder kept their eyes on the wall of covered cubbyholes, numbered post office boxes, especially number 3733. Each box looked like a tiny prison cubicle.
    Every time a new customer walked in and marched toward the appropriate section of boxes, he and Scully exchanged a glance. They tensed, then relaxed, as person after person failed to fit the descrip-tion, went to the wrong cubbyhole, or simply conducted routine post office business, oblivious to the FBI surveillance.
    Finally, after about an hour and twenty minutes of stakeout, a gaunt man pushed open the heavy glass door and moved directly to the wall of P.O. boxes. His antibodies
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    face was lean, his head completely shaven and glistening as if he used furniture polish every morning. His chin, though, held an explosion of black bristly beard.
    His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones