Work Text:
“Are we in Illinois or Indiana?” Mulder demanded, staring at the cornfield to their right.
Scully didn’t have to pull out the map from the glove compartment, because at the moment, she was studying a building in the distance with a large yellow sign labeled “Gunslinger’s Ammo Emporium.”
“Indiana,” she replied with certainty.
Mulder let out a long breath and leaned his head as far back as it would go. “That’s what I thought,” he groaned. “Only I figured I must be wrong, because no way would there be this much traffic in Indiana.”
Sitting in their rental car stuck in traffic on Interstate 65 as rush hour hit, it seemed like an appropriate cap to an all-around bad day.
That morning, they had been woken up in their respective motel rooms not by their alarm clocks or wake up calls, but by the furious lovemaking that the occupants of Room 12 were enjoying. One of Room 12’s occupants was so hard, the other of Room 12’s occupants was so wet and together, they were so good, so good, so good—
The occupants of rooms 10 and 11 were so tired and so annoyed and so not-in-the-mood-for-this-right-now.
Scully’s shower’s hot water hadn’t been working because of course not. Mulder wasn’t sure if his hot water had been working or not, because after waking up to the enthusiastic if repetitive narration of Mr. and Mrs. Room 12, he’d had to take a cold shower anyway.
Mulder and Scully had decided to take advantage of their unscheduled wake-up call and get an early start to the airport, only to discover upon arrival that their flight to O’Hare had been cancelled, which meant they wouldn’t be able to make their connection to D.C.
The reason? The workers at the dinky regional airport they were flying out of had just announced a strike.
Okay, so they would find another airport…but a flurry of phone calls had confirmed that every airport remotely near them in Indiana was also on strike.
The agents had hastily formed Plan B, to drive from Nowheresville, Indiana to Chicago. Either O’Hare or Midway were sure to have another flight to D.C. they could get on, right? And Illinois was only a state away. Their first step was to get out of Indiana.
Indiana, however, was not so eager to let them leave.
The world seemed have converged upon the Hoosier State. The highway had been packed all day: semis, pickups, minivans, RVs, even a few hearses, everyone had rushed to Indiana to see what it had to offer.
Or maybe it was a mass exodus. Whatever the reason, Interstate 65 was a veritable Who’s Who of truckers, screaming families, and bored-looking commuters. In the past 45 minutes, Mulder and Scully had advanced no farther than an unmotivated tortoise. So they sat in the car and enjoyed what scenery Indiana had to offer.
Maybe “enjoyed” was a strong word. Neither of them had before appreciated just how endless and monotonous Indiana seemed when you were on a highway. Cornfields and soybean fields, punctuated only by ugly megachurches, enormous gun stores, and Cracker Barrels. And the billboards of course.
So many billboards. They advertised restaurants, TV stations, fireworks, not to mention all the billboards asking visitors from the west if they were “Illinoyed” by their high taxes (Relocate your business to Indiana today!).
But those weren’t the billboards that interested Mulder.
There was a trend in Indiana billboards, Mulder had noticed, where organizations purchased several billboards in succession and painted a long, run-on sentence onto the billboards, so you would need to pay attention as you drove to absorb the full message. For example, half a mile back they had passed a billboard that had said “JESUS LOVES YOU” and then a quarter of a mile later, another billboard continued “AND WARNS YOU THAT.” Now, Mulder and Scully were stuck in traffic right beside a billboard declaring “HELL IS REAL AND.”
He knew there was another billboard in another quarter mile completing the thought; he could see the very edge of it, but he was unable to read it, no matter how he strained his neck. He had been stuck in traffic for 45 minutes just wondering what the rest of Jesus’s warning was.
“Scully,” he asked after unsuccessfully straining his neck once again, “can you see that billboard over there?” He pointed to the mystery billboard.
Scully shook her head. “The Walmart truck is blocking my view,” she informed him.
Mulder recited the message so far. “Jesus loves you and warns you that Hell is real, and…” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “And what?” What did that billboard say?
“I don’t know, Mulder,” Scully sighed. She looked down at the notebook she had on her lap, where she was writing the report of the most recent X-File. She didn’t normally write reports by hand, but at least that way this car ride wouldn’t be an absolute waste. Granted, it had been several minutes since she’d last written a word, the Indiana roadside both mind-numbingly boring yet oddly entrancing. She frowned at the page of paper and wrote “unsubstantiated. Yet Agent Mulder still believes” before her eyes slid to Gunslinger’s Ammo Emporium and the cartoon cowboy on its sign.
“Hell is real,” Mulder repeated, “and…sinners must repent?” That seemed like the sort of thing the next billboard would say. “Hell is real and faith is your only escape? Hell is real and there’s a Wendy’s at the next exit?”
Scully snorted. “Hell is real and you can listen to classic rock on 102.3.”
“Hell is real and the Olive Garden has unlimited breadsticks.”
Scully tapped her pen against her chin. The notebook slipped to her feet, forgotten. “Hell is real, and kids under 5 eat for free at Denny’s.”
“Are there many Denny’s in Hell?” Mulder asked.
Was this blasphemy? Scully dismissed the niggle of guilt. There was precious little entertainment on Interstate 65. As pathetic as this statement was, this was the best part of her day so far. So she answered Mulder’s question in the spirit in which he’d asked it. “Yes, Denny’s had to franchise in Hell once Heaven got that exclusive IHOP contract.”
“Now that is international.”
The truck in front of them moved, and Mulder was able to edge up a whole five inches. Still not enough to see the billboard. He groaned and smacked the steering wheel.
“Jesus loves you,” he continued, “and warns you that Hell is real, and…” He trailed off.
“It’s other people,” finished Scully.
This caused Mulder to laugh, and Scully felt a flush of pride.
“Jesus loves you,” Scully said now, “and warns you that Hell is real and…” This time, she allowed Mulder to complete the thought.
“The Fox network has footage,” Mulder finished. “Jesus loves you and warns you that Hell is real and…” He bit back his injudicious completion (“He’ll see you there.”) and waited for Scully to finish it.
“…it has lower taxes than Illinois,” Scully finished.
“Relocate your business to Hell today!” Mulder said.
“Jesus loves you and warns that you that Hell is real and…” Scully trailed off, and she chewed the inside of her cheek as she tried to think of another finish.
Mulder spoke up. “Jesus loves you and warns you that Hell is real and it’s in Indiana.”
Scully’s laughter was smothered by the sudden blaring from the car behind them. For some reason, Interstate 65 had just cleared up, and they were able to start moving again. Mulder slammed his foot on the gas and they shot forward, at last able to see the next sign, which was…
“Blank?” yelped Mulder, stopping the car.
The sign was empty. A man stood on the platform in front of the billboard, a can of paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. He painted a line down the board—it could have been an I, or the start of a B or a D or a—
“Mulder, drive!” Scully exclaimed as the honking behind them increased.
Mulder sighed and started driving.
“Great,” he groaned, “now we’ll never know.”
“Sorry Mulder,” Scully said, patting his shoulder, “I guess it’s just another X-File.”