Dreaming Omega 
Spookey247 (spookey247@msn.com) 
 
3/7
Derange and Disengage: Three
 
BUXTON, NORTH CAROLINA 10:51 PM
Jesus Fucking Christ. My jeans are soaked and the bed is soaked. It's the ice bucket, now 
melted, which turned over when I did. Thank god the fun never ends.
The room is dark. I find the TV remote and flip to the program guide. It's almost eleven.
Maybe I could get someone else to shoot me.
I've got one of those four-star headaches that you can only get by mixing excessive 
drinking with way too much sun. When I sit up, the bed revolves slowly.
Maybe I'll just die of thirst.
I can't bring myself to turn on the bathroom light so I fumble in the darkness to unwrap a 
flimsy plastic cup. I gulp tap water greedily, tasting sulphur.
Mental note: even the Black Oil tastes better than the water at the coast.
The night air is cool as I cross the highway. The village seems deserted; tourist season 
has been over for weeks. The fluorescent light in the Handy Mart is painfully bright, but 
I locate what I need, pausing in the aisle to open a box of painkillers and drain a bottle 
of water.
The guy behind the counter looks up from his magazine. "Dude...do you think you could 
pay for those first?"
"Too late." I medicate myself and toss the empty Advil box and my credit card on the 
counter with some bottles of water. My stomach lurches dangerously. "You got any real 
food around here?"
"Hot dogs and nachos back there."
"Just what a body needs."
I contemplate the glistening red wieners as they slowly revolve in their warmer. 
Normally, I'll eat anything without complaining. There's no use being picky in my line of 
work. I really have to wonder, though, if this is a good idea.
"I've got just one word for you," a voice says softly, right in my ear. "Sal-mo-nel-la."
Joy is standing next to me holding a twelve-pack of Budweiser under her arm. Her 
presence is like a magic tonic; I can feel my shoulders drop an inch just looking at her 
face.
"I think I was deciding against it."
"You're fried." She reaches out and pokes me in the bicep.
"In more ways than one."
"Did you get a room?"
Our eyes meet. It takes a moment to find my voice. "Uh, yeah, I took your advice." I 
point across the highway. "You were right, it is very clean."
Joy looks like she's about to burst out laughing. I can tell she hates small talk as much as 
I do. My desire to end this lame conversation gets the better of my shyness and I find 
myself saying, "Um, I was going to call you but I fell asleep...I guess I was kind of 
drunk. Again."
"Yeah, you were." She's still smiling like the cat with the canary so I just keep rolling 
before I have a chance to stop myself.
"I was going to ask if you wanted to have a drink with me."
She doesn't attempt to hide her pleasure at my proposal. "I'd love to. But I can't."
I don't answer so she continues, "Tessa and I have got some friends over tonight. 
Monday's our night off and we usually play poker. We just live a couple of blocks from 
here...walking distance."
"Okay..."
"Do you like shrimp?"
"Sure. To tell the truth, right now I like anything that's not still moving."
"Me and Tess cooked. Once you get to know me you'll see what a miracle that is. You 
wouldn't want to miss it cause it may be a one time event. Want to come over?"
Okay, let me puzzle this one out. Should I return to the immaculately decorated Surf 
Motel to sit in the gloom resisting the lure of the gun in my car, or should I follow this 
lovely creature home and spend a few hours getting to know her? "Sure," I say, feeling 
lighter by the instant, "But I've got just one word for you."
"What's that?"
"Pisswater." I take the case of Budweiser and put it back in the cooler.
"That was two words."
"Not necessarily."
I pull out two sixes of an expensive micro-brew. "Do you drink stuff like this?"
"Sure, I'll drink it." She frowns at me sternly. "But let me tell you, son, at my house we 
don't go in for all that high-brow crap."
There's a gleam in her eye and a teasing grin; I wonder if Joy is ever serious about 
anything. "I'll try to keep that in mind."
"You're in the south now, yankee boy."
"Yes ma'am. I hear you."
"If you don't look out you might go all native and actually drink beer from a can."
 
SOMEWHERE ON NC 12, HATTERAS ISLAND 10:57 PM
I know everyone loves the Outer Banks, but tonight I can't imagine any place being 
beautiful enough to justify what I have just been through.
Getting out of Norfolk was hell and navigating through Newport News was hell, but the 
highway from Newport News to Kitty Hawk was more like purgatory, with multiple 
slowdowns and a traffic jam that went on for what seemed like hours. A drive I 
expected to make in two hours stretched out to three. When I arrived in Kitty Hawk, 
sleepy and hungry and ready to kill someone, I found out that Buxton, on the next 
island south, was at least thirty minutes further on. Fortunately, the traffic through Nags 
Head wasn't bad, thinning to almost nothing once I crossed the bridge to Hatteras.
The tiny coastal villages consist of small businesses and scattered houses. They tend to 
roll by without making much of an impression, so I have to consider it a lucky break 
when I notice the small sign that tells me I have arrived in Buxton.
I can't keep my eyes open any longer. About five miles back I had a bona fide 
hallucination: a herd of butterflies crossed the highway in the darkness ahead of me. The 
illusion lasted only a split second, but the effect was realistic enough to make me slam on 
my brakes, leaving me feeling slightly idiotic. I need coffee. I slow down to pull into a 
convenience store and then something makes me glance to the left, instead.
Surf Motel.
I can feel him. He's near. The coffee can wait.
A middle-aged woman sits behind the desk in the lobby. She is watching a news 
program and I have to speak to get her attention. "Excuse me."
"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry." The woman's face is friendly as she swings around in her chair. 
"Do you have a reservation?"
"No, actually, I'm looking for someone. Can you tell me which room is Fox Mulder's?"
"Well, now, let me see. 109. That's just down that hall there."
The worn beige walls with their many doors are a blur and I am trying hard not to run. I 
knock on the door. I am willing him to be inside, unharmed. I knock again, refusing to 
believe that he is not within. By the third knock I feel deflated.
It's going to be a long night.
Back at the front desk, I try despite my disappointment to seem nonchalant. "My friend 
didn't answer, but his car is in the parking lot. You haven't seen him in the last hour or 
so, have you?"
"What is his name again?"
"Fox Mulder. He's tall, with brown hair. The Honda in the parking lot is his."
"Oh, he was that nice looking young man that came in this afternoon. I remember him 
very clearly, interesting name. But I've been busy in the office. I haven't seen him since I 
checked him in. He's probably taking a walk on the beach."
I can't afford to assume anything like that. I flip out my FBI credentials. "Ma'am, I need 
to ask you to open the door to room 109."
"Oh my. Is the fellow dangerous? Should we call the sheriff?"
"No, it's not anything like that. He's my partner and he's been missing. I need to make 
sure that he's not in that room."
Looking disturbed, the woman takes a key ring and I follow her back down the hall. A 
quick check of room 109 reveals nothing but Mulder's dirty laundry and rumpled bed. 
On the off chance that he may have left his gun for safe keeping, I open drawers and 
check under the bed, but I come up empty, of course. I don't know why I thought I 
would find it. I push open the door to the terrace and slog toward the beach, my shoes 
filling with sand.
The beach seems enormous; the sky even bigger. The water is dark and full of 
foreboding. I could walk for hours and have no chance of finding him. Why did I feel 
his presence so urgently?
All at once I'm paper-thin and the wind rustles my bones like dry leaves. I *can* feel 
him. I can. I see his form phosphorescent near the water, which isn't really water but a 
suggestion of water, ghostly in this place of shipwrecks and tragedy. I see his form 
translucent, stepping into a bright light and disappearing.
I know something now in my bones, my Bones, which have become so fragile...he can't 
wait anymore, he's got to have the answer he has sought so long. Nothing else matters to 
him now.
Mulder is a seeker and so I have become a seeker, too. The trail has gone cold here on 
the earth. He wants to look for it somewhere else. I want to follow him, as I always 
have. I want to follow.
End of Part Three