Chapter 6: Roommates

Sleep was impossible.

Waylon felt guilty for having won the bed. He constantly woke throughout the entire night, covered in sweat, staring at shadows on the unfamiliar walls.

There was a constant buzzing sound from the thermostat that waxed and waned through the night. Waylon was reluctant to mess with it. Knowing his luck, any interference from him would only exacerbate the problem.

When the first rays of dawn lit up the cheap blinds covering the bedroom window, Waylon admitted defeat. He got up, and began to tiptoe around the apartment. He searched the tiny bathroom with its cabinet, sink, and combination bath/shower, and was rewarded for his effort. A large gallon of bleach—dusty, but not too old. Over half of the corrosive liquid remained within the bottle. Perfect.

When Miles woke up, Waylon was already wearing a pair of rubber gloves, brought from Japan, and scrubbing the bathroom floor with a bleach soaked rag.

"Are you almost done," asked Miles, yawning and scratching at his back. He stood in the doorway to the only bathroom with sleepy eyes and bedhead. "I need to take a piss."

"I've already cleaned the shower, bath, and sink," said Waylon, sitting back on his heels. "I'm almost done with the floor, so if you can just give me, maybe, five more minutes…"

"Sure thing," said Miles, turning from the bathroom, and walking through the main living area to the kitchen.

Waylon continued to scrub, picking up the pace, and increasing the amount of pressure. He paused in his scrubbing to wet his cloth, and heard a sound like trickling water in the kitchen, followed by the faucet running. Waylon froze before jumping to his feet, and rushing into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" demanded Waylon, standing in a defensive position. He was still wearing the rubber gloves, and holding a bleach soaked rag.

"Wishing we had some goddamn coffee," said Miles, frowning at an open cabinet.

"No, the faucet, did you…did you just pee in the sink?" asked Waylon.

"Guilty."

"Are you fucking…" Waylon's tirade was cut short when he felt himself getting dizzy. He bent at the waist, with his gloved hands gripping the aqua Formica kitchen countertop.

"What's the big deal? Urine is sterile," said Miles. He shrugged his bare shoulders, turning his back on Waylon. He began searching through the cabinets.

"It stops being sterile when it makes contact with the urethra…" hissed Waylon. He stalked back to the bathroom, picked up the large bottle of bleach, and brought it back into the kitchen. He proceeded to pour the remainder of the jug directly into the sink, swirling it around to reach every inch of the stainless steel finish.

"Ugh, are you serious right now," muttered Miles, pushing past Waylon to escape the suffocating fumes in the kitchen. "I think all these chemicals are doing something to your brain, Park."

"Some ground rules," said Waylon, standing up as tall as possible, and glaring at Miles. "When you come inside, you take off your shoes. After being out, you change clothes. I'll handle the laundry, it needs to be cleaned on the hottest setting, all of it. I don't mind doing the cleaning and scrubbing, but you have to at least help out by rinsing your own dishes, and not pissing in the goddamn sink."

"Noted," said Miles, yawning. "I need coffee. You think there's a grocer nearby?"

"I don't know," hissed Waylon, pausing in his scrubbing only long enough to answer.

"Well, I'm gonna go to try to talk to Mario…"

"His name is Angelo…"

"…to see if there's anything nearby. I'm starving. Haven't eaten since the plane."

"Go," said Waylon, barely glancing up from the kitchen. The fumes were considerable, but they comforted him. The smell of sanitation. Out of the corner of his eye, Waylon watched Miles put a shirt on over his jeans before leaving.

Waylon used the first page of his new journal to detail out a list of equipment he would require. Sorry Lisa, thought Waylon. He would tear the page out later.

Cleaning supplies, more rubber gloves, plastic bags, and several new locks to be installed were at the top of the list. They would need food as well. Bottled water to avoid drinking whatever came from the tap.

Waylon was completely out of bleach, and rinsing the kitchen floor with water and a rag, when Miles returned. He carried a steaming Styrofoam cup in one hand, and a paper sack in the other.

"Did you find a grocery?" asked Waylon, sitting up and pushing his hair out of his eyes with his forearm to avoid his bleach soaked gloves touching his face.

"It's a ways away," said Miles, setting down the bag, and taking a noisy sip from the cup. "We can walk it, but it won't be fun considering your make-believe limp. Luigi said he'll give us a ride after work."

"Angelo," said Waylon, frowning. "The name of our boss, and landlord, is Angelo. And a psychosomatic injury is hardly made-up."

"Yeah, so, Alfredo gave me our uniforms and name tags," said Miles, taking another loud sip. "Fuck."

"What?!" asked Waylon, almost jumping to his feet. He scanned for emergencies.

"Burnt my tongue," said Miles, smacking his lips. "Good coffee they're making down in the main house. Anyways, the boss says we have a group coming in before lunch. He needs us dressed, and in position. I guess we're going to be training on the job."

"But we just got in last night, can't we take a couple days to get settled?"

"Honestly, I wanted to tell him to take the job, and shove it up his ass, it sounds horrible…"

"Why? What are we going to be doing?"

Miles emerged from the bathroom wearing the provided white button down shirt, and white dockers. His messy brown hair was brushed behind his ears, and he had shaved his face. He managed to look rather dashing. His pallor seemed much healthier than in Kyoto. Maybe the Italian air was already improving his health.

Miles looked much more the part of the hero. Waylon could not help but wonder how it could have been different, if Miles were the face of the Murkoff survivors, instead of himself.

Waylon wore the same clothing, but he resembled a 1950's milkman in an ill-fitting uniform. The bags under his eyes, scruff on his chin, and uneven haircut completed the look. Waylon did not look nearly as put together as Miles. He looked worn out. Depleted.

"Here ya go, Buck," said Miles, handing Waylon a printed name tag to pin to his uniform lapel.

"Perfect," muttered Waylon. Miles was already wearing his "Flint" name tag, proudly.

It was not the worst job Waylon had been assigned. He had expected a couple of days to acclimate, but Angelo had a tour group stopping by the winery that day. Miles and Waylon were going to be on the serving and clean-up staff. Sink or swim.

Waylon's anxiety was at an all time high, and even his medication was not helping. The new apartment, the lack of sleep, the questionable state of the provided uniform. Had someone else worn it before? And then there was the work. Cleaning up after strangers? Waylon hoped it would not be an issue that he was wearing gloves. It was a non-negotiable condition of Waylon being able to complete the job.

"This isn't so bad," said Miles, setting out rows of plastic tasting glasses. Waylon arranged several different wine bottles on a nearby table, grouped by type. "I'm sure they won't drink it all. We can help with cleanup."

The sound of a cork popping made Waylon jump out of his skin. He had to pause to put his hands on his chest as he took deep, calming breaths.

"You okay?" asked Miles, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm fine," grumbled Waylon, resuming his work. It was rather annoying when he compared himself to Miles. Waylon had never had anyone with which to compare. It was grating how carefree and composed Miles seemed at all times. How had he escaped the asylum, and all the psychological issues that plagued Waylon? It was disheartening.

Or maybe Miles was just better at disguising his issues.

The tour group that day was from Brazil. Despite the language differences of Italian and Portuguese, the group had little trouble understanding Angelo as he gave the tour. Miles and Waylon had no idea what anyone was saying. It was especially difficult when the tourists approached to ask for something, or complain.

One particularly talkative middle-aged woman spoke quickly to Waylon. He nodded politely, and continued to collect used cups in a trash bag. Unfortunately, the nod must have been the wrong answer, because her response was to talk at him even faster, and louder.

Waylon shrugged. "I don't speak Italian," he said, in English, holding out his hands. The woman leveled a death glare at him, before storming away. Waylon's stress levels were reaching critical mass.

He could feel his control slipping. He needed some down time to defrag. He attempted to sneak away, but the other employees blocked his path, pushing new jobs on him.

The situation got worse when lunch arrived. An outside caterer brought meals for the tourists to eat, paired with a wine of their choice. The sight of the spaghetti and meatballs made Waylon's stomach twist, but he was accustomed to working through it. He continued to pour wine into glasses, and pass them around the table. Miles was called away to help Angelo's son retrieve additional crates of wine bottles.

Waylon focused on his task, and watched as the people began to eat. Time seemed to slow down as his vision honed in on a young child, maybe six, eating his lunch. His mother scolded him for using his hands. In response, the child attempted to eat directly from his plate, with his mouth. The boy sat up with red sauce dripping from his chin…

Error.

"Don't look at us! I love him," cried Frank Manera, sitting across a blood soaked counter from Waylon-red blood smeared thick across his face. He stood up slowly, and pointed a gnarled finger at Waylon. "Meat. You're mine."

Waylon stood still, and closed his eyes. He could feel himself shaking. The warm Italian afternoon faded away into a ruined cafeteria. The air turned stale; the scent of copper pervasive.

Not real. It was not real. Frank Manera was dead. But when Waylon cracked his eyes again, he saw Frank stalking toward him, all bones and sinew. His skin was covered in tattoos and gore, clear down to the smallest detail. Waylon had not had time to buy a new phone. He could not take a picture. Waylon bolted.

Run. Hide. Survive.

Calculating route.

Waylon ran into the vineyard's large storage barn that housed all of the wine making equipment. The parts of the tour he had overheard were in another language, but he was able to catch the overall gist. There were large vats, casting long shadows.

"Feed me. FEED ME!"

The mantra echoed in Waylon's mind, forcing him to run deeper into the dark building. He threw himself against a wall. Dead end. He began to sweat and shake. End of the line? Luckily, a sign caught his eye. The writing was in Italian, but he spotted a stairway, leading to a basement level.

Waylon continued to run. He had to get away. He could feel Frank closing in on him. He took the stairs two at a time. The basement floor was unfinished, packed dirt. Gigantic barrels of wine were aging in the cool, damp earth. It was almost completely dark, except for the sparse light filtering down from the top of the stairs. He would have to hide.

Waylon wished for a camcorder so he could see in the oppressive darkness. He was not alone. He could feel it. He could sense another person, breathing, even though he could hear nothing over the pounding of his own heart.

Something reached out and grabbed his foot, attempting to pry him from his hiding place.

"MINE!"

Waylon kicked violently and howled. He could feel hands grabbing for him, clawing at his clothing, trying to tear him to shreds.

"You can't hide, meat."

Run. Hide. Survive. If Waylon could not escape, he refused to become an easy meal. He thrashed and spat, fighting with everything he was worth. Frank was on top of him, impossibly heavy for his wiry frame. Waylon's arms were soon pinned around his back. He screamed, but a firm hand pushed his face into the dirt, smothering the sound.

"You need to cut it out," hissed Miles, his face close to Waylon's ear. Miles. Not Frank. Waylon deflated, all of the fight leaving him in an instant. "Are you back? Waylon?"

"Buck," insisted Waylon, spitting out a mouthful of mud and grit. Miles released Waylon's arms, but stayed on top of his back. "I'm alright, well, I…"

There was not much he could say at that time.

"Another freak out, like in Kyoto? Is this going to happen often?" asked Miles.

"Define often," said Waylon, groaning in relief as Miles stood up. The man was ungodly heavy for looking so slim and tall. And very strong. The years on the run, hunting Murkoff, had hardened him into a formidable threat. Thankfully, he was on Waylon's side—for the moment.

"You're a goddamn liability," said Miles. It was too dark to see his facial expression, but Waylon could guess he was frowning. "We haven't even had time to finalize a plan, let alone set it in motion, and you're already causing scenes like this? You'll bring Murkoff down on us before we're ready."

"It's not like I can help it," said Waylon. Miles shook his head and bent over, offering Waylon a hand in the dark. Once Waylon was upright, he brushed off his white uniform. It was pointless—his uniform was spotted and dirty.

"Your medication doesn't help?" asked Miles.

"It does," said Waylon, looking around the dark, still suspicious. His systems were still tingling, as though some threat remains. He thought he saw a black shadow move. "But, I never know, I mean, it just comes out of nowhere. And the attacks feel so real. One second I'm here, the next, I'm just, right back in the halls, with Frank Manera chasing me, trying to fucking eat me…"

"Ah, the butcher guy? I remember him from your footage," said Miles. "What do you usually do? When these things happen?"

"I don't know," said Waylon.

Waylon turned, and walked back toward the stairs, where the light was brighter. Miles followed, watching him closely, but Waylon refused to meet his strange, gray eyes. It was bad enough that he was such a mess, without having to worry about the judgment from another survivor.

"Maybe it's getting worse," said Waylon, sighing. "I don't know. I usually only see Frank and Eddie, but, since I met you, I've had to run from Chris Walker, and even the Walrider. It's unusual. The Walrider scared me, but, as long as I stayed away, it did not hurt me. In fact, it might have saved my life."

Miles frowned. "The Walrider beat the shit out of me."

Waylon looked at Miles face and saw no traces of a joke. "But…h-how did you survive? Everyone I saw in the clutches of the Walrider was turned into a puddle of guts."

"Just lucky, I guess," said Miles. He walked back up the stairs and into the main storage area above. Waylon followed, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Miles knew too many unreported details about the asylum to be lying. But fighting the Walrider—and living?

Error. Does not compute.

"Was it the Walrider, then? The one that took your fingers?" asked Waylon.

"No," said Miles, talking as they walked through the building. "That was a sick bastard, mad scientist, doctor. Trager."

"Rick Trager?" asked Waylon, eyes going wide.

"You had a run in with him, too?" asked Miles.

"Um…no…I knew him, before…he was an employee at Murkoff, at the same time I was working there. I never saw him, after he was committed."

"He was a scary fucker," said Miles, shuddering. "Long, scraggly gray hair, and an eye like some kinda do-it-yourself, budget, steam-punk cyborg kit. The worst part, though…he was naked behind this dirty shop apron. I got a great view of his disgusting ass."

The description brought to mind a memory of a dead body, surrounded by mercenaries, near the elevator in the administration block. Wait. Could that have been Rick Trager?

Memory corrupt.

"How did you escape? After he took your fingers?" asked Waylon.

"Ugh, I don't really remember," said Miles, pausing near the door to the area where the tourists were finishing up their lunch. "I was strapped to a chair. I got free. I puked. Just, did what I was already doing, kept trying to find a way out. Doing what it took to survive."

"Did…did you kill him?" asked Waylon.

"No, he died trying to kill me," said Miles. "Miracle. Deus ex machina. Dumb luck. Whatever you wanna call it, he was crushed by an elevator. Squeezed the life out of him." Miles paused to give a dark chuckle. "Trager juice."

Waylon had to swallow back a wave of nausea. It was unsettling to hear Miles making jokes about his harrowing experience. Waylon still felt shaky, when Miles opened the door, and they rejoined the event.

The demonstration seemed to drag on through the afternoon, before dessert was finally served. Miles and Waylon passed out biscotti and dessert wine in tiny plastic glasses. The tiredness from traveling, lack of sleep, and his earlier panic attack left Waylon sluggish.

The weariness must have affected Miles, also, because Waylon approached and found him in the middle of a tense stand-off with a large tourist. The front of Miles' white uniform shirt clung to his chest, soaked by liquid.

"Everything alright?" asked Waylon, pausing beside the two men. Miles was standing with his hands clenched, staring up at the much taller, much wider, bulging with muscles gentleman. "Sir?"

The man said something in Portuguese. It sounded threatening. Waylon held up his hands, and shook his head. "We speak English."

The man obviously did not, because he started another tirade in his native tongue.

"What did you do?" Waylon whispered loudly to Miles.

"He did this to me," hissed Miles. Waylon was frightened when he looked in Miles eyes. They seemed darker, shifting. They reminded Waylon of something hauntingly familiar. Flickering images. A featureless face staring out through static.

"It was an accident," said Waylon.

"He should apologize," insisted Miles, not budging.

"Okay, well, we're not going to fight the customers on the first day, so…" Waylon stepped between the man and Miles, and held up his hands. "Very sorry," he said to the man. "Accident. Very sorry. Please, forgive us."

Waylon walked backwards, bumping into Miles, and continued to push with his body weight. Miles finally backed away with a huff. Miles stalked into the barn while Angelo called the attention of the tourists. Waylon chased after Miles.

"You okay?" he asked, finding Miles leaning against some crates, brooding.

"Yeah," said Miles. He sighed when he looked at Waylon's concerned face. "Sorry." Waylon continued to stare, brow creased in confusion. "I'm not a people person."

"You don't say," said Waylon, rolling his eyes.

"This job blows," said Miles, pouting in a way that was unbecoming for a man of his age. "I became a journalist so I could set my own schedule, be my own boss, and not having to deal with…shit like this." Miles gestured toward his wet shirt. Waylon chuckled, which only seemed to add to Miles' agitation.

"It's just water. Unless you're the evil witch from The Wizard of Oz, you'll survive," said Waylon. In the dim light of the barn, the wet, white shirt was semi-transparent. "Look on the bright side—you're definitely winning the wet t-shirt contest."

"Yeah?" asked Miles, finally cracking a begrudged grin. "I guess I can mark that off the bucket list."

"Look," said Waylon, putting a friendly hand on Miles' shoulder, "you helped me earlier. If you need to go back, cool off, I can handle clean up tonight. I'll tell Angelo you're sick."

"That's okay," said Miles, standing up straighter, and adjusting his wet shirt. "I can do this. I want to do this." Miles paused and stared into Waylon's eyes before he spoke again. "Thanks. You don't realize how close we just came to disaster. You stopped me from doing something really stupid."

"Yeah, like getting yourself punched out cold," said Waylon, grinning as he turned to walk with Miles back toward the tables. "That guy was twice your size."

"That wasn't the danger," said Miles, a cocky grin on his handsome face.

Waylon sighed. What he would not give for an iota of Miles Upshur's confidence.

It took longer than expected to clean up after the tour group. Angelo was kind enough to drive Waylon into town to buy supplies. He also gave them some covered trays of left overs for their dinner. It was a kind gesture, though Waylon could not stomach looking at the meatballs in red sauce.

After a full day of work, and no sleep, Waylon still managed to clean the apartment, wash their uniforms, and shower. The new sponge was coarse and brittle. Waylon was left bleeding from tiny abrasions all over his skin. But, at least he was clean.

It was strange to walk out into the living area in his pajamas, and have another person there. Uncomfortable, but not completely unpleasant. Waylon had been alone for so long.

Inside, a voice screamed that Miles was unclean-polluting his living space. Yet the more human parts craved interaction. Any interaction. Waylon had never lived with anyone, except Lisa and his family. Even though the arrangement was temporary, Waylon wondered if he could potentially enjoy having Miles around.

Waylon joined Miles on the couch in front of the tiny provided television set. Miles was glaring at the screen where some Italian game show host was introducing the contestants. Waylon frowned. "There's nothing in English?"

"There's nothing at all," said Miles, not looking away from the flickering screen. "We get like, five channels, and they all suck."

"Let me see," said Waylon, reaching for the remote. Miles promptly pulled it out of his reach.

"No way, asshole," said Miles. "You won the bed, I got the couch. That means I control the TV."

"That wasn't part of the arrangement," said Waylon, glaring at Miles. Maybe he had made a mistake deciding not to hate this guy.

"I'll gladly switch spots with you, if you want the remote that bad," said Miles, giving a sly grin.

"Fine," said Waylon with a grimace. "You control it. At least flip through the channels."

Miles quickly flashed through the channels. Sitcom. News channel. Cooking competition? The movie Speed, dubbed in Italian. And back to the game channel.

"Wait! Go back, that was Speed," said Waylon.

"Who cares? It's dubbed in Italian," said Miles.

"Yeah, but I mean, I've seen it. You've probably seen it. We know enough to understand what's going on, right? There's a bus, and it…"

"I know the premise, thanks, I just don't feel like watching that," said Miles, shrugging on the couch next to Waylon.

"So you'd rather watch these people…what are they even doing? Is this some kind of Jeopardy knock-off?"

"Maybe. Who knows," said Miles. He turned his head to side-eye Waylon.

"You're doing this on purpose," accused Waylon. "You're trying to piss me off."

"I'm not," said Miles. "I'm very interested in…whatever the chick with the huge cans is saying."

"She's speaking Italian."

"Yeah, well, how else are we going to learn?"

"Learn what!? Arrrrrrrgh," said Waylon, groaning. He stood up from the couch in a huff. Miles laughed, further fueling Waylon's anger. Waylon stomped as he made his way to the bedroom, and slammed the door behind himself. The dim sound of canned laughter was joined by Miles' very real cackling.

Whatever. Maybe having a roommate was not going to be as great as he had hoped.

Waylon pulled out the new disposable phone he had acquired on his outing after work. He dialed, and waited for the line to pick up.

"Dr. Evelyn Mason."

"Evie," said Waylon, sitting back on the bed, sighing. "New place. Same story. Already getting chased by dead patients."

"One moment," said Dr. Mason. There were muffled noise before she finally returned to the line. "Waylon. I'm sorry, I'm in the middle of something. You'll have to make this quick."

"It was Frank, he was trying to eat me," said Waylon.

"Well, Frank is the most frequent manifestation of your subconscious, along with Eddie. Were you able to regain your senses before anything serious occurred?"

"Yeah, my roommate—I have a roommate now—he tackled me, and talked me down, I guess."

"A roommate? Is that…safe? For them?"

"I think he can take care of himself," said Waylon.

"Is he aware of your considerable issues and potential risks?"

"He can handle himself. Anyways, it's still happening, seems more frequent, maybe you were right—about the medication dosage needing adjusting."

"That's great, but I'm out of the office at the moment. I'll put the order through to Agent Perry once I get back tomorrow. He might require you to have a physical first. You're familiar with the procedures. And now, I do apologize, but as I've been, officially, unassigned to your case, and this is not even working hours…"

"Wait, what time is it there? I'm all changed around."

"Five thirty," said Dr. Mason. "I'm not in the office, I'm…on a date, actually."

"Really? That's cool, what's he like?" asked Waylon, grinning at the phone.

"Who said it was a he? And I need to get going. As long as you're not having any emergencies?"

"No emergencies," said Waylon, sighing.

"Waylon, I think a roommate could be a good idea. Some human interactions will do you good. The goal is always to get back with your family, correct? Compromise. Learn to deal with others again. Your people skills are really suffering from all this reclusive living. Take care of yourself."

"You, too. Later, Evie."

Waylon dropped the phone and rolled over, reaching instead for his journal. The television continue to chatter away behind the thin door.

Lisa,

We always dreamed of going to Italy one day. When the kids were grown, we said. We had no way of knowing I would end up here, alone, missing you. I'm surrounded by wine. You would love it. I have no way of telling if it's good or not, but you would know. You always had a great palate for those things. The way you would order a bottle for the table, swirling the liquid in your glass. You're so beautiful. I see you everywhere, here, and I dream of holding you again, soon.

I have a roommate. We don't have much in common, but he's not a bad guy. An ally. I know you would want me to have more friends. You would want me to make connections with people. I'm just not sure it's working.

The only connections that ever mattered in my life were the ones tying me to you. Forever.