Chapter 11: Stay Behind Me

It felt strange to wake up alone. Miles had never come to bed. Waylon knew, because he had stayed up most of the night, staring at the ceiling. Waylon got out of bed, and peeked into the living room area.

Miles was sprawled out, shirtless, on the couch. His silvery scars glinted in the morning sun filtering in through the glass door to the balcony. It was a familiar sight, until recently.

Miles had not wanted to share the bed. Obviously, he would refuse to sleep in the same bed as Waylon, after the shameless display the previous evening. After Miles had rejected Waylon's affections.

Waylon took a long, hot shower, scrubbing his skin raw in the scalding spray. There were many stray hairs from his new haircut, washed down the drain.

By the time Waylon emerged, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, Miles was in the kitchen, eating cereal in silence. He was already dressed in dark jeans, and a faded black shirt.

"Miles, I'm sorry about last night," said Waylon. The strange atmosphere was uncomfortable, adding to Waylon's already heightened anxiety. Best to deal with it straight on.

Miles shrugged, and shoved a large spoon of cereal into his mouth.

"I didn't want to strain our friendship like this," continued Waylon.

"I don't wanna talk about that," said Miles, pausing with spoon in hand. "We've got much bigger problems. We need to talk about what could happen today. This is very important. I need you to promise me, you'll do what I tell you. Promise me you'll stay behind me."

"I'd rather stand beside you," said Waylon.

"You don't understand," said Miles, glaring. "They can't hurt me, I'm…"

"Already dead, heard it before," said Waylon. "I'm not going to help you with some suicide mission."

"There's a huge misunderstanding here," said Miles. "Mount Massive, it left me dark—twisted. I've done things. I'm dangerous. I'm not what you think I am-I'm different."

"So, what?" asked Waylon. "I don't even deserve a chance? You don't even want to give me a chance to accept…whatever? What is it? You're…married? I'm married. You're…antisocial? A basket case? Anger management issues? I'm just as bad. You're an asshole, sure, but you might be the only person in the world who can understand me, and I could really use a bit of understanding these days."

Miles stood up, abruptly, walking to the small kitchen window. "If we survive this, we won't need to revisit this topic. You won't feel that way anymore."

"But what if I do? Does this mean you'll consider it? You're open to a discussion?" asked Waylon, his heart fluttering to life in his chest. "You're not rejecting me?"

"Someone's coming," said Miles, eyes focused on something out the small window.

"The FBI?" asked Waylon.

"Murkoff."

"How do you know it's not the feds?" asked Waylon.

"Listen to me. Look at me."

Waylon's blood pressure spiked. His eyes darted in every direction, making it difficult to meet Miles' stare. It was too sudden. "We need to run, right now, both of us."

"I'm not running," said Miles, calmly. "This ends today. It ends now. And I need you to stay with me. If you lose it now, I might not be able to protect you."

Waylon peered around Miles, staring out at the line of approaching vehicles.

"Protect me?! There's no protecting anyone from that. They'll have guns, weapons, things we can only imagine! This is the company that manufactured the fucking Walrider! We have to get out of here, the feds are on their way, if we can get far enough away, we can hide, and…"

"Are you okay?" asked Miles, one eye out the window, and the other on Waylon. "You look shaky. Like you're about to lose it."

"I won't," said Waylon. He doubted it convinced Miles, since it did not even convince himself. "I'll try…"

"Listen, when you see the swarm, don't panic," said Miles. "It won't harm you."

"Are you, wha…you're the one who's losing it," said Waylon, staring at Miles with newfound confusion. "Fuck it, we're doing it my way, come on!"

"It's best if we stay here," said Miles, shifting his gaze back out the window. "They'll have trouble getting too many people up the stairs at once. It's narrow. We can handle them easier."

"No, we can't, we don't have any weapons," said Waylon, grasping for Miles' hand and attempting to pull him away from the window. He found Miles completely immovable. He may as well have been a concrete pillar.

"It's okay," said Miles, shaking off Waylon's hand, and putting his hands on Waylon's hips instead. "Breathe. It's okay."

"I don't want to be murdered," said Waylon. "I'll die someday, I'll die, I know, but I don't want to be murdered. I don't want you to be murdered."

"I know you don't, but you shouldn't be afraid, right now," said Miles. "It's Murkoff that should be afraid. Not you. You're going home."

Waylon craned his neck to see around Miles. There was dust kicked up from the large amount of black, Mercedes vans driving down the winery's private dirt drive.

"So many," said Waylon. "We don't know how many people are in those vans."

"They're all full to capacity."

"You're right, best to assume the worse," said Waylon.

"I'm not assuming, I'm telling you—we know. Your boys didn't show up, so we're switching to Plan B. Just, stay behind me. Promise?"

"Okay," said Waylon.

"All the employees should be down in the barn, already," said Miles.

"We should tell them to call the police," said Waylon.

"I don't think they'll need to be told, one those vans get here. Call your boy," said Miles, moving to stand near the door. "I'll keep them out."

Waylon's hand quaked as he dialed the number, and waited for Agent Perry to pick up. The ringing was constant. Ring. Ring. Waylon's body was shaking as though suffering from hypothermia. Ring. Ring. The sound of boots echoing off the metal staircase. Ring. Ring.

Waylon dropped the phone when a loud pounding noise reverberated through the apartment.

"Who is it?" asked Miles, putting himself between Waylon and the door.

"We're looking for a man who lives in this apartment," came a deep voice through the red door.

"Gosh, you know, this isn't a great time, we're both naked right now, could ya come back later?" asked Miles, smirking where only Waylon could see.

"We know who you are, and we know you that have something of ours, Waylon Park."

"You don't know shit," said Miles, grinning.

Waylon's horror multiplied at the sight of that smile, and those black eyes. His vision began to blur until it seemed like a cloud was hovering around Miles. Waylon was struck with an acute pain behind his eyes, and familiar monochromatic shapes flashed in his mind.

Waylon's eyes flew open, and he dropped to the ground, grasping blindly for his dropped phone. He needed the camera function. He needed to prove, to himself, that his eyes were mistaken. He floundered around on the ground, reaching out blindly. Waylon could not afford to lose his grip on reality. This was life or death.

The sound of screams from the other side of the door echoed in Waylon's mind. Miles did not seem alarmed in the slightest. If the Walrider had just manifested in their apartment, Miles would not be standing so still. There had to be a rational explanation.

Through the chaos, someone managed to blow off the door handle with some unseen tool. The hardware punched through the wall, leaving a huge dent. It had barely missed Miles. Waylon struggled to his feet, abandoning the phone. He dashed forward as the door was kicked open.

"Miles, they're coming in," said Waylon, attempting to pull Miles away.

"Stay back," said Miles, reaching out to push Waylon away. He kept his body in front of Waylon, holding out his arms.

A hail of bullets soared through the open door. Waylon heard them whizzing past, blanketing the entire apartment in the sound of broken glass, and painful grunts.

Waylon felt Miles shudder as bullets pierced his skin.

"No! Miles! No, oh God," said Waylon, as sobs choked off further words.

"Stay back, they aren't done," said Miles, wheezing slightly. He released Waylon, clutching his own stomach. A flood of black blood came bubbling up between mangled fingers.

Waylon cried, and his vision narrowed until he could only stare at Miles' pained face. He was confused by a spray of warm liquid across his cheek. Then, Waylon noticed the intestines on the wall. Louder than the bullets, the screams from the invaders were mixed with a deafening static.

Flower…pretty flower…I'll open you up.

Run. Hide. Survive?

Waylon stared through a transparent wall at another unfortunate soul in a patient's uniform. The patient slammed against the wall, moments before the swarm descended into the cell from an unseen ventilation system. Waylon saw the patient pulled quickly up toward the ceiling.

The electricity flickered. Everything went black. All Waylon could see was a kaleidoscope of black and white images, flashing in front of his eyes. The Morphogenic Engine's static rang loud in his brain.

He was blind, and trapped. The only small miracle was the camcorder he was able to pick up. He switched to night vision, and looked around, struggling to gain his bearings.

Waylon stared at a wall that had been transparent, before it became coated in blood. Large chunks of gore smeared their way down the surface. Waylon ran to the door, but there was no handle. No escape.

He was trapped, and the Walrider was loose. Then, a patient wandered into the area.

"I'll open you up…make you purr…"

Once the door opened with a hiss, Waylon ran. He was disoriented. Flashing lights, and dark corridors, lay ahead. Doors slammed shut in the distance. And then, something drifted under a closed door.

At first, Waylon believed it might have been a fire smoking on the other side of the door, until the smoke coalesced into a humanoid form. The same being that had turned his cell neighbor into a bloody puddle.

The first view of the Walrider always stuck out in Waylon's mind. Its skeletal form, floating in the air. It was enough to fuel a lifetime of nightmares. The swarm noticed Waylon, and stalked toward him with quick, fluid movements. Waylon's only choice was to keep running.

The hospital's hallways were all closed doors, and dead ends. Waylon was trapped. Only one option remained. Waylon ran to the window, and stared down at the two-story drop into a foggy courtyard. Decide or die.

Calculating chance of survival.

Waylon opened the window—and jumped.

The debilitating pain shocked Waylon back to reality. He slowly came to grips with his surroundings. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He had jumped from the window in the apartment bedroom. There was no immediate danger in sight.

The first attempt to stand was met with immediate collapse. Waylon's brain struggled to make sense of what was happening. His leg was not broken, but his limbs were delayed in responding. Waylon felt nauseous, and his vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Shit. He could not afford to black out with Murkoff in the apartment.

Waylon fought through the cold panic. He stood with his hands on his thighs, and his head between his legs. He started to heave, thankful he had missed breakfast. Soon, Waylon's head began to feel less fuzzy, and he could safely look around.

All of the black vans remained parked outside of the apartment. The doors to some of the vehicles remained flung wide open. There were no humans in sight.

Waylon started to jog toward the stairs, but the throbbing pain in his ankle stopped him. He hissed in pain, and began the agonizingly slow limp back to the apartment stairs.

Angelo was running up the path in the distance. He stopped, and shouted to Waylon, probably afraid to get too close.

"Call the police," shouted Waylon, still limping around the building, to the stairs.

"Si!"

Waylon finally turned the corner around the building, and stared up the staircase. He automatically froze. Were his hallucinations persisting? Was the door truly soaked in blood, or was it just pained red, per usual? Waylon put his foot on the first step, and pulled away, finding it slick with viscous liquid.

System report. Situation dangerously unstable. Implementing necessary protocols. Breathe. Just breathe.

It was like a scene right out of his nightmares. A scene out of Mount Massive. There was too much gore. If Miles was inside, he was dead.

Waylon prayed it was a hallucination. He hoped his eyes were playing tricks on him, as he slowly climbed the steps. He needed his phone. A camcorder. Anything. The door was hanging by one hinge when Waylon pushed it open.

"Dammit, Park, I said stay behind me, not, jump out a goddamn window, I need your help."

"Miles!" shouted Waylon, relief flooding his body. He found Miles propped up against the living room wall, holding his nose with one hand, and his blood soaked abdomen with the other. Dark blood oozed from Miles' nose, ears, and even eyes.

Waylon ran to Miles, and dropped to his knees, ignoring the mess. He threw his arms around Miles' neck.

"I'm here, Miles, I'm here," said Waylon. "Angelo's calling the police. Someone'll be here soon."

Waylon felt queasy when he saw how much blood was leaking from Miles, saturating his shirt. A small pile of bloody bullet shells rested on the carpet beside him.

"We're in a time crunch here," said Miles. He grunted as he attempted to sit up straighter. "I have to disappear. It'll go faster if you help me with these bullets."

"Doctors will be here soon, just hold on, Miles."

"Are you really this dense? I just took out a fleet of Murkoff trained personnel in Kevlar body armor. I'm fine," Miles adjusted his posture, and hissed in discomfort.

"Stay still, you don't want to make it worse," said Waylon, grabbing Miles' hand, and finding it slick with blood.

"I'm not dying," said Miles, chuckling. "I need your help, though. Getting the slugs out is the worst part."

Waylon was confused, when Miles pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a torso riddled with bloody wounds. There were several areas that had already stopped bleeding, but three distinct bullet holes were oozing dark blood. Two were in Miles' abdomen, and another was perilously close to Miles' heart.

"I need those long, thin fingers of yours," said Miles. "Always meant to ask you if you played piano."

Waylon stared at Miles. Despite bleeding out, Miles managed to look impatient. Was he truly that ready to die?

"P-piano? No, Miles, I don't play any instruments, I'm not half that interesting," said Waylon, stroking Miles' hand with his thumb. "Just hang in there."

Miles shook his head, and growled in frustration. "Waylon, I can't die from this, the swarm won't let me."

Waylon's face creased with confusion when he felt a tap on his shoulder. His head spun around, expecting Angelo, or the police, or even Perry's calvary. Instead, Waylon screamed, and threw himself in the opposite direction.

Waylon took deep, shuddering breaths as he stared into the strange, spectral face of the Walrider. The swarm was hovering beside Miles, its form almost complete, with skeletal limbs, and an eyeless face pointed in Waylon's direction. The Walrider seemed more transparent than Waylon remembered, like morning fog, dissipating before the sun's rays.

Error.

"I need my phone," said Waylon, or rather, he attempted to say it. His voice came out as a tiny squeak. Miles gave another irritated grunt.

"You're not having an episode," said Miles. Waylon's brown eyes stared at Miles. "It's there."

"You see it, too?" asked Waylon, voice wavering.

"Um, yeah, the swarm's here" said Miles. "What else could cause this kind of damage?"

Waylon glanced around, again, at the blood soaked walls. The puddles of innards and viscera were already attracting flies through the open doorway.

Not a hallucination. Real.

But the swarm was not attacking either of them. Puzzle pieces began to click together in Waylon's tattered mind.

If Miles survived Mount Massive, and the Walrider is hovering in the room, then Miles must be the host.

A problem has been detected, and Waylon has been shut down to prevent further damage.

Waylon's eye twitched.

"Park?"

Miles' voice seemed to be coming from the end of a long hallway, echoing and distant.

"Murkoff is hunting me, all this time, because they thought I was the host of the Walrider," said Waylon, murmuring frantically to himself. "They thought I was the host, but It was you. Murkoff was after you, except they didn't even know you existed. How?! How did you survive, how are you controlling this right now? Is it safe? Am I safe?"

"I've been the host this entire time, and you haven't been in danger, have you?" asked Miles.

Waylon's brain was already replaying every memory since Miles' arrival. The Walrider in the bathroom in Kyoto. The buzzing noises in the apartment. The night he had walked in on Miles, touching himself.

"How?" asked Waylon, again.

"I told you," said Miles, frowning. "I died, at Mount Massive. I killed Billy Hope, to stop the Walrider, and it switched hosts. Long after I should have been dead, it kept me alive. I'm…I'm not sure I'm human. So many changes."

"Shit," said Waylon, still feeling frozen in place. The swarm's expressionless face tilted slightly, as though listening. "Shit. What do we do? How can we explain this? The FBI is on the way, they're going to freak out when they find out they let the Walrider slip through their fingers…"

"They can't find out," said Miles, deadly serious. "They can't find out, so I need to leave. Right now. When the feds get here, tell them Murkoff had another prototype, tell them you have no idea what happened, tell them you went into another fit, and saw nothing. Tell them I'm dead. But I've gotta be long gone."

"How can you leave? You're bleeding, and…"

"This isn't even the worst I've been shot up," said Miles. "I'd answer all your questions, if I could, but there's no time. Help get these bullets out."

Waylon's eyes flickered, between the manifested swarm, and Miles.

"Time is a factor," said Miles.

"I can't, I can't deal with, there's too much blood, you're bleeding, and this blood is real, the swarm is looking at me, I can't, I need to…"

"You're going to abandon me, now, when the plan is almost complete?" asked Miles. He started to gesture with his hands, but he winced in pain, and dropped his hand back to his bleeding stomach. "We were successful! We got them. Now, help me get away. The FBI, the police, no one will let me life, if they find out the truth. You've gotta save me. You'll do that for me, right?"

Waylon walked on his knees until he was beside Miles, staring down at the bleeding mess of his abdomen. Waylon had seen a fair amount of blood, thanks to his ordeal, but the fluid leaking from Miles seemed off, somehow. Like dark red blood, mixed with something thicker. The wounds did not bleed, so much as ooze.

Miles grunted as he grabbed Waylon's hand, and pressed it to his lower stomach, where the holes were located.

"Fuck," said Waylon, moving to push both of his hands against the holes, in some attempt to stem the leakage. "This looks so bad…"

"It's nothing," said Miles, glaring. "Help me."

Waylon frowned as he started to work. "You were telling the truth, then? Back in Japan, about the shrapnel?"

"Would you focus?"

"The swarm doesn't have a way to do this for you?" asked Waylon.

"It does," said Miles, with a tired sigh. "But I'm stretching myself thin, right now. The more nanites that are used, the more get damaged, or lost. It takes a toll on my body's systems. I need to reserve all my nanites for healing right now." Miles wiped his dripping nose on the back of his forearm. "I'm gonna need all my strength if I expect to escape."

Waylon worked as quickly as possible to pry the bullet casings out of Miles' festering wounds. Once the metal was out of the wound, they immediately began to close up and clot. Miles made a breathy sigh as the second bullet was dislodged.

"Are you okay?" asked Waylon, holding perfectly still.

"Yeah," said Miles, panting. "I'm fine. Really. It doesn't hurt."

"This doesn't hurt?" asked Waylon, pressing into the raw flesh.

Miles shook his head, biting his lip to hold back a noise. His gray eyes were churning, and dark.

Waylon focused on the last bullet, located close to Miles' heart. He could feel it pounding as he worked to pull out the last target. When the bullet slipped from between his bloody fingers, Miles gave a tight moan.

"I'm sorry, I'm being as gentle as possible," said Waylon, frowning. "Please, don't die."

"I'm not dying," said Miles, breathing heavily. "You don't have to be gentle."

Waylon ignored the fact that his hand was pushing through something that resembled a jello mold filled with meat and bone fragments. When he found the bullet, again, he pulled it out before it could slip away. "Got it!"

Miles closed his eyes, and moaned. Waylon wiped his bloody hands on his own clothes, watching Miles with open worry. Only, Miles did not seem alarmed in the slightest.

"Are you alright? What now? Do you need bandages?" asked Waylon, staring at Miles in confusion.

"Fuck, that was good," said Miles, giving a tired chuckle. The bullet wounds had all ceased their bleeding. Miles sat panting, staring at Waylon with dark, heavily lidded eyes.

"What is your problem?You act like you're getting off on that, or something…"

"Not sure I like that judgmental tone," said Miles.

"Are you…are you being serious?" asked Waylon. Miles grinned. "Un-fucking-believable. I thought you were dying…"

"I told you I wasn't," said Miles. "I tried to tell you. There's something very wrong with me. Pleasure, and pain, it's all fucked up, the swarm reprogrammed me somehow. Honestly, right now, I'm just shocked that you haven't run away…"

"Me too," said Waylon, immediately biting his tongue. "Not because I don't want to be here with you, but because of my issues, and earlier, when I wasn't able to keep it together, even though you asked…"

"It's okay," said Miles, pushing himself upright.

"You're already healing? How do you do that?" asked Waylon, reaching out to touch one of the already sealed wounds. Miles inhaled sharply through his teeth, at the contact.

"Watch out, you'll get me riled up again," said Miles. Waylon quickly pulled his hand back, glaring as Miles laughed. In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens became audible.

"This is what you meant," said Waylon, meeting Miles' glare. "You said I wouldn't want to stay with you, and you meant because I wouldn't stay, if you were the host."

Miles shifted his eyes to stare at the bloody ground, no longer meeting Waylon's eyes.

"I'm scared…" said Waylon, and Miles' eyes immediately snapped back up with a hurt expression, "…but I'm not leaving."

"You have to leave, you have to meet the feds, you have to tell them what happened to keep them away from me," said Miles. "They won't kill me, but I'll wish they had. Maybe you never saw what they did to Billy Hope, but he was in this glass sphere…"

"They did it to lots of patients," said Waylon. He remembered Eddie Gluskin's handsome face on the monitor, as he was forced into the sphere. And he remembered watching that face turn into a horror show. "Last night, I know what you said, but I don't want to leave you. I don't want it to be over. I'll protect you. I don't care about the swarm, or whatever it did to you. We can work through it-we can stay together…"

Something behind Waylon's head pushed him forward, and Miles grabbed his face, forcing their lips to meet.

Teeth clacked together in a feral kiss, unlike any Waylon had ever received. Waylon's mouth opened automatically, and Miles' tongue invaded as he hummed into the kiss. His senses were flooded with the heat, and the taste of metal and Miles. Waylon returned the kiss, moving on instinct and desire, rather than any technique. When his teeth accidentally tore into Miles' lip, he was met with a chest deep groan.

There was a buzzing in Waylon's head as they kissed, and he assumed it was an effect of the swarm, or possibly his own being vibrating due to the proximity with Miles. It was actually something vastly more mundane.

Somewhere, on the ground, his cell phone buzzed.

"Shit," said Waylon, pulling away. Miles' hand flew to his lips, as his shoulders deflated. Waylon crawled on the ground, ignoring the pain in his ankle, until he found his phone. It had dropped, earlier, and managed to roll far beneath the couch. Waylon retrieved it, and held it up to his face.

"Park, Jesus Christ, what in fuck's name is going on over there? The crew is on the way, but they were intersected by the Italian police, and there's tons of interference happening. News crews? Is this your idea of a joke?"

"My idea of a…what the fuck Perry?! I told you to get somewhere here. There's men down! It's a…it's a bloodbath. Send help, please, I already told you, it was Murkoff, and…"

"You stay on the line, I have more questions for you, and you're going to answer every single one of them. Russo is the name of the agent in charge of the Italian side of this investigation, I want…"

Waylon punched the end call button harder than necessary, before chunking the burner phone against the wall. He hoped it would shatter. Rather, it left a large dent, and landed with a thud behind the television.

There were suddenly two smoky black appendages under Miles' arms, pulling him to a standing position. He grunted, adjusting his jeans. The swarm brought his ruined shirt up to his hands.

"I'm running. Don't forget, I'm dead," said Miles. Waylon dashed to his side, as Miles replaced his ruined shirt.

"Can we meet again, soon?" asked Waylon. He grasped for Miles' hand, ignoring the fact that his own were still tacky with Miles' blood.

Miles paused for a moment, lips pursed. Finally, he gave one curt nod. The sound of the sirens grew ominously louder.

"You didn't reject me because you don't like me?"

"No," said Miles, exhaling through his nose, in a slight laugh. "It's not like that. I just thought you'd want to be far away from me, once you knew. And I wanted to make it easier on you. It felt like the kindest thing I could do."

"Idiot," said Waylon, laughing. He pulled Miles into a tight hug, ignoring the short grunt. "Thank God. Take me with you."

"I can't do that," said Miles. "Too dangerous…"

"Then I'll come find you," said Waylon.

Miles sighed, turning to walk toward the balcony. He opened the door, and paused in the threshold.

"You know where I'll be," said Miles. "You're welcome, there. Anytime. But this is the reality, this is what I am, and I understand if you don't want that in your life. Miles Upshur died at Mount Massive, and I'm something new, something evil."

"Evil? Why are you always so dramatic about this?" asked Waylon.

"I'd feel relieved, I think, if I never saw you again," said Miles. "Because I think it'd be safer for you."

"Tell me how to get there, and I'll come, as soon as I can, I will…"

"Those sirens are here, now," said Miles. "I have to leave. Blame it on Murkoff, all of it. You can handle this, right, Park?"

Waylon did not feel like he could handle much of anything. He reeled from the painful thought of leaving Miles. Despite his confession, and possible returned feelings, it still ended how they had feared. He watched Miles hop over the balcony railing, and disappear from sight.

"Vieni fuori con le mani in alto!"

Bullhorns sounded outside the apartment, from the bottom of the stairs. Waylon considered jumping from the balcony, and chasing after Miles. But that would only lead to more running. Murkoff was finished. All that remained was the busy work. Waylon took a deep breath, and walked toward the door, keeping his hands up.

"Ciao? Mi chiamo Waylon Park..."