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The
black figure backed away, firing.
Mulder cursed and moved
more quickly, keeping as low as he could without losing his balance.
There were too many shadows now, too much movement.
He had to get there
before the shooter disappeared.
At the south edge of a
small clearing, he braced himself against a trunk, took several deep
breaths to calm down and clear his head, and waited until the firing
stopped.
There was no silence.
The wind and the woodland
husked and shrieked at each other, pinwheeling debris across the
clearing.
He would have to go
across it; to go around would waste time.
He inhaled, blew out, and
spun away from the tree in a crouch. He was halfway across, aiming,
finger already squeezing the trigger, before he realized the shooter was
gone.
Damn, he thought,
and slowly straightened, not trusting his vision, gun still out and
ready, squinting into the wind and throwing up one hand in disgust.
Something moved behind
him.
He had only half-turned
before something hard slammed off his temple, a glancing blow that drove
him to his knees. His gun whipped out of his grip. His right arm lashed
out automatically and struck something soft, but he couldn’t see
clearly; there were too many flares of blinding, painful light.
But he saw something, and
it made him hesitate.
Then a blow to his spine
almost toppled him, and he lashed out again, losing his balance as he
did, landing on his shoulder before he was pinned on his chest.
A giggle in his ear,
hoarse and inhuman.
Then a voice: "Mulder,
watch your back," just before a foot caught him under his ribs.
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