Null of Light
There was a soured and puffy body behind me the whole time. I barely noticed when I spun around, the coagulated blood on my shoes stuck to the carpet. I studied it for a few seconds, a long streak of black lead to the gate the disciple had indicated. Follow the Blood.
The segregation gate was wide open leading into a corridor, my new course. I decided the gate at the opposite end of the room was indeed locked, only to save me the 'long' walk to confirm this. I didn't immediately begin off on my new tour, but stood in a daze as my mind caught up to current events. I had barely escaped an encounter with the big fucker and returned to the modern section of the Asylum, the area I had first encountered the nightmares that would micromanage my… I wouldn't define it as 'progress.' Liberation? I couldn't come up with wording that wasn't cliché or cheap. I just wanted out, that's it.
Some of my rational was clearing, though my head throbbed and it was hard to think. The lights, the lights were too intense for my eyes. Maybe if I wasn't staring into the cracked visor every second, but I barely realized the way I had it, angled beside my face and my posture was kinked. I'd spent too long glued to the camera. Damn, I didn't give a fuck anymore.
The flies were getting on my nerves, roused as I worked. They couldn't decided who they preferred more, the corpse or me. The dead researcher didn't have much on him when he perished, but I didn't think I was the first to poke through his pockets. There was a penlight and a wallet, and that's it. It was morally wrong, I'm aware of that, but I opened his wallet and went through it. Found a picture of the guy when he was alive with his family. It was a classic picture, mom and dad and the kid, out in the front yard of a house that looked at home in some middle class neighborhood, probably a city or town I'd never hear about. My mind wondered where his kid had gone, the picture didn't look old, not the same as some treasured artifact parents wore to death within the month. Just a memory. Was his wife wondering where he went? Did she care enough to contact authorities? I was here, I guess not.
I tucked the picture into my notepad, in a clean space with no writing. I flipped through the crisp pages, they had gotten wet from the multiples times I was soaked. The pocket was waterproof but not submersible, water managed to seep through the zipper. Some of the pages stuck, but I could work on that later. I replaced the small booklet in its pocket, then examined the penlight over. It had two batteries. Currently, my camera was running low on NV and I had a spare. I'd probably need them, whatever amount of energy they had.
The blood still squelched under my shoes as I moved over the plush carpet, to the open gate. For some reason the sensation unnerved me. Of course it would, I'd be disconcerting if it didn't. But it was as though I was reliving the Asylum all over, from the beginning. I'd had enough, I didn't want to be reminded. I wanted to let go of this place and leave it far behind me. Let go, move on, and heal. I needed to heal. There would be scarring though. Deep, hidden, ugly scars.
The door in the hall was glass and distorted, but locked. I peered through, seeing nothing in particular but more hall and a functioning lamp at some distance. I didn't linger. The hall cut to the right, blood stains on the wall and floor caught my eye, where a patient might have been shot. Cracks and pop marks curved over the plaster, but no bodies. I continued, following the direction a plate labeled Recreational Hall, indicated with an arrow. That would probably be the best place to start looking for a theater. I thought there was a new resonance in the air, but ignored it. I was worked up enough, though I felt a creeping sense that I wasn't alone. Not here in this hall under these bright lights, I gave the stained walls a glance but saw no cameras. I was alone and isolated.
The next right dead ended at a door that refused to open. I tried to force the handle, but someone had forgotten to unlock it for me, or it was locked intentionally. I would have to force it, but I didn't think I had the strength.
There had been an open door a ways back, it lead into a dark room I wanted to overlook. It was careless, I was getting careless, but I almost didn't care anymore.
I stood in the doorway, fumbling for the NV switch until the green visor flashed in my face. Nothing in the immediate range stood out, just a room with windows and drapes. Was I hearing… music? A piano? It didn't sound like a radio, I could feel the melody through the walls as did my bones. Just my head churning, I had difficulty focusing. I entered the room, abruptly blasted by my old adversary of putrid air. I was beginning to miss the smell of wet char.
The camera buzzed as the image distorted, I paused to wait it out and listened as the music continued. A pool table sat on the right, sticks still placed on the top with Q-balls scattered hither and yonder. Large cushioned chairs lined the wall on the left, with another of Murkoff's trademark dried out plants. The far side of the wall was set up with an entertainment center, complete with DVDs stacked on the desk by the flat screen. While stepping beside the pool table I was spooked by my reflection in the screen, until I realized the angle was wrong.
When I spun about the image failed in the visor, I waited as my heart thumped, until the static cleared. By then there was nothing, just the familiar impression in my memories, a shape vaguely…. If someone was following, I needed to keep on the move.
I continued toward the pool table, trying not to focus on the reflective surface of the screen. A body, and the source of reek within the room, appeared in the gloom on the floor, a blood streak led to the fallen Researcher, or was it doctor? It might've been the person that bled in the hall, before he dragged himself in here to die. He was shot, punch holes clear even through the cracked visor. I carefully stepped over the body, listening as the gentle tune rose in volume.
On the other side of the pool table, a large split between the floor and lower wall was formed. The destruction was organized, no evidence of the materials lay nearby but dust and splinters, the crevice was carved out in a rectangular shape, much like a door. This detour made little sense, but I questioned nothing of the rationality of those left responsible after Murkoff's demise. I couldn't complain, either.
The hole led into a sizable storage closet, with a broken locker and some spare tables. They looked small, maybe a little outdated, probably donated by some preschool from the 40s. A door across on my right led out into a short hall with more lockers and a small stool with a radio on top of it. I tried the nobs but it had no power. Aside from that the hall was a dead end, leading to a segregation gate that was locked.
I returned to the storage closet and found the ladder at the side, which led up to a higher level. Not really a floor, just a loft with railing barring the sides. Crates and some empty boxes were stacked along walls that appeared outdated, eroded and neglected. Likewise, the wood was as outdated and an archaic quality took the design, this must have been an area where the old asylum and Murkoff section merged. Or this side was shut away when Murkoff reopened the asylum.
The railing shut the loft in, but across from my position the barrier didn't fully block in the floor. Beside the opening stretched a thin ledge I was certain my feet would fit on. Though there was enough light on the wall lamps that lit up the hall, I still felt comfort with the camera out in case I saw something interesting or caught a glimpse of the shapes that plagued my mind. It was easier to hold the camera beside my shoulder as I shuffled along the wall, without cramming it against my eye.
This area was in disrepair, but not as far gone as the other side of the Asylum where the building was condemned. The walls were chipped and the paint had worn away years ago, and some of the cables running wires across the walls needed to be updated. But it was still standing, and had not been completely demolished by hells cleansing fire.
That was bad. And I felt bad for coming up with it.
The segregation gate extended up to the ceiling, except for a thin gap in the side where the ledge extended, due to practicality in construction most likely. I squeezed through, then leaned low judging the distance to a set of lockers across from me. The lockers shook under my weight and I had to pause to let the ache settle. I pondered if my backside was bleeding again, it felt like my coat had crystalized to the wound and that spot was nearly numb now, which worried me. I crouched down and slipped to the wood floor. The piano music was close now, somewhere in this hall with me? I weaved around tall stacks of crates, coming to what I knew must be the source.
I turned my head to a reinforced door nailed shut, my sudden commotion must've prompted the sharp key that was struck. The sudden sound startled me as it rung in my ears painfully. My camera was already leveled by my eyes, I didn't have the presence of mind to adjust or check what I was filming, my mind too occupied by the shape beyond the windows thin screen.
The man rose from his seat and approached the door, I made a pitiful sound when he stopped and gazed through the mesh at me, then tilt his head. I couldn't be certain, but it looked like his eyelids had been trimmed away. As a result they had a fishy, glass like quality. This procedure seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't recall where it was I had seen it. I stared back as he tilt his head the other way, and once satisfied, walked away. Just like that.
I let out a small gasp as I continued to stare into the room, with the softly burning candle atop the piano. Briefly, I wondered what he had been like before he was mutilated. What if he had never been a patient?
I backed away and turned, on the left a doorway stood waiting, with no visible door to shut. At one point it had a door, but time changes these things. I crept close to the frame on one side and peered into the room. The lights were too bright, and a dull hum had filled the air with the pianist's absence. I missed it, I missed the somber tune.
The floor had pieces of plaster scattered, that had chipped from the walls. A short stack of wood steps led up to a platform built four feet above the floor, beneath, a few boxes and other rubbish had been shoved up under the tight storage space between the two floors. More lockers were set along the crumbling wall on my left, the platform at my right was built along a corner, electrical panels built beside the platform for easy access, their outdated cables extended along the walls and to the lamps burning their hot light. A few feet beside them, a doorway.
No sign of life, no sound or disturbance that I could detect. I crept to the stairs keeping my movement slow and quiet. I would be in a bad way if I was surprised here, in the unforgiving yellow blaze. I never thought I'd just despise the light, but its bright artificial glaze aggravated my head. It warmed the air around my body, yet I had a chill in my skin. I was uncertain if the under layer of my coat was still damp or if I was imagining it.
Little comfort was to be had in the shadows, where it was I could never know what exactly skipped at the edges of the cracked visor. I stalled in the doorway atop the upper floor. I thought there was something, I felt it in my mind. But as always, nothing. There was nothing, and never would there be something. I had to keep reminding myself that.
I massaged my eyes then gave the shadows another scrutiny. Nothing but a wall of black, the air heavy with a stale musk tinted by ancient wood. I shivered and changed out the battery, before I shuffled through the broken doorframe. Through the NV I could make out the stacks of empty shelves, pieces of boards and plywood leaning on walls. A mop and a janitorial bucket had been abandoned in this little closet space, some towels or long sheets had been left to decay along the edges of the wall. Some of the tattered cloth appeared to have been slept in, at some point or another.
I maneuvered around the furniture, getting a little lost as I tried to find my way out of the space. I climbed atop a shelf but it went nowhere, it was just a small space I could get onto and get nowhere.
Finally, I stumbled upon an opening I had probably walked by five times, where a pallet had been set aside. More of the large dirt tinged cloth was left to dangle on my right, over a wall of the room I was about to enter. I balanced on the boards angled over the edge, and stopped in my tracks to view the room filled with chairs and the eyes of a dozen people gazing at me.
Corpses. Victims of this place. I calmed my nerves as I tensed and dropped down onto the floor below, my shoes thudded on the hollow wood. I took a few steps forward scanning the eyes, and listened to the strange sound of blood on my shoes. There was a puddle where I dropped down, there was always blood. With my camera I zoomed and scanned the room for movement, it was nothing but a house of corpses. The hair on my neck prickled. What was I sent here for? Something specific.
Many of the chairs had been scooted aside forming a straight path towards the back of the room, and those red, large familiar words that red EXIT. I would start there, if not it could be my escape out.
I only paused to stare on a stiff cadaver slumped back in his wheelchair, when the lights above burned into focus, and I whirled away as the white cloth was agitated by an image. I blinked a few times, then turned off the NV when the spots in my eyes cleared somewhat. I moved to crouch low beside a chair, away from the man in the wheelchair. The screen had a spray of blood across one corner, and a broken support beam had rotten and fallen, to slant across and catch squirming vapor.
"…exit interview recorded December 27th, 1985 Los Alamos, New Mexico."
The movie. This was what the disciple meant. I was to see this movie, and the key was… here somewhere?
"Clearance Sierra Alpha. Subject DR. Rudolf Wernicke. 14866." I slipped up into a seat, and set my elbows on the back of the chair before me, in order to hold the camera steady. Those images….
"The films are real." What was I seeing?
"There was no alteration to the footage at all?" The guy had a clean voice, sounded formal, maybe with the CIA. Possibly bureaucratic, I couldn't decide what. "No trickery."
"None."
"In June of 1943 you recorded three instances of spontaneous bleeding. A half dozen test subjects began to develop brain tumors."
"Yes. The autopsies revealed that the tumors were pure lead." A heavy accent, easily German native. This was… Dr. Wernicke's voice?
I rested my chin on my arm but kept the camera aimed and steady, though there was nothing to film. At least, I don't think—
"It killed them?" Oh… god. "Can you explain why the results could not be reproduced in the United States?"
"I have my theories. My homeland, in those years." He paused here, as though trying to work through the memories that came with his explanation. "It's impossible to understand the things we felt. What we believed."
Germany during World War II was probably one of the most accurate descriptions of hell on Earth. Or, what we perceived as hell. The Auschwitz camps that claimed the lives of so many people, children, their families. I felt tears spilling down my cheek, and buried my face in my arm.
"The overwhelming fear. Ecstatic rage and…." He trailed off. "English words are insufficient."
Tremors clutched my body, and I lowered the camera to the chairs backside, unsure if it was still recording the screen. I didn't give a fuck, couldn't tell what I was staring at. The swirling pain, indescribable things nesting in my mind. What was I seeing? I wrapped my arms around my face and cried into them. Heavy sobs, I need this, I just needed to do this right now.
"More than hope. A human mind in that environment is capable of extraordinary things."
Fuck you.
"You're saying the experiment needed…."
"A proximity to death. To overwhelming madness. Only a test subject who had witnessed enough horror was capable of activating the engine."
The engine. The Morphogenic Engine.
"Do you believe your test subjects achieved something supernatural?"
"No."
"Do you think they contacted something supernatural?"
"Nothing is supernatural."
At this point the speaker sounded dubious, if not interested in Wernicke's answer. "Then what was it? You said project WALRIDER was a gateway. A gateway to what?"
Eventually my sobs did calm down and I sat up in the chair waiting for the interview to continue. But Dr. Wernicke never answered, or the audio cut off. I took a deep breath through my nose and settled my frayed thoughts. I think my coat smelled awful, it was brittle and gritty with dried mud from the Asylum's grounds, but none of that mattered. I'd been submerged in death and pain for too long. I pulled my face from my arms and rubbed a hand over my short hair, I flinched at the unfamiliar gap in my fingers. Where? Where did I go now?
Not just here, but after this? I wasn't going to be normal once I got out. I brought my hand down and stared at what remained of my ring finger. Aside from being unable to count down from five on one hand. My vision fell beyond to the screen, and I shut my eyes. I was going to get out of this. No one, no damn dead doctor was going to keep me trapped in this nightmare.
"The man sounds like Dr. Strangelove's anemic brother. It's a twenty-five year old audio recording, and interview with this Dr. Wernicke. Los Alamos means government work. Wernicke talks about spontaneous bleeding, tumors in psychosomatic reactions in sufficiently disturbed people. Seems to walk a line between science and Nazi mysticism.
"Only a test subject who had witnessed enough horror was capable of activating the engine." The Morphogenic Engine.
The Engine. The movie they're projecting. It gets in my head like a song you can't stop humming. I blink and I see Rorschach tests that look like swarming insects and infected surgery wounds.
The patients talk about using the Engine to conjure the Walrider. It's the buzzing I hear in my bones."
I fit the little booklet back into its pocket and adjusted the camera on my hand. Whatever their plans, I would try not to get too involved with them. I planned to get out of here long before they did anything else, short of blowing the place sky high.
The bodies of Murkoff and their victims dot a few of the seats, their dead eyes saw through me to the screen. Blood splattered the floor, from the wounded before dying. I tilt my head as a few of the insects aroused by the light and noise began to settle on me, but my contest with them was impossible. Their interest in my wounds was the least of my concerns.
The path to the back of the room was straight forward, I didn't have a burning desire to climb over chairs and make a ruckus, though it was apparent someone knew I was here. Near the back where the rows of chairs ended, some tables were left with Researchers placed at or around each. Throats torn out, torsos shredded, entrails spilling across their laps. I began to wonder who had set the corpses up, and to what purpose? To educate them? This was an Asylum, so that seemed the most sensible reason.
Acrid light slid from a wide doorway on my left, where I took would gain access to the projector room. Or close enough. He said behind the light, I watched their damn 'movie.'
When I stepped into the light I paused and finished drying my face with the collar of my coat. There was no sound but for the tick of the projector still running its images, I tried not to think about them. I stood in the doorway not particularly looking at anything, just picking up the air. No one was in the room, not with me here, no. A desk, lockers, and the dead tone of a phone off the hook. On the floor at the other side of the room, a streak of blood slipped under a door. I tossed the door behind me shut and moved to stand before the next portal, the only direction provided. Blood trails. Father Martin wanted me to follow blood trails. It was only coming back to me how morbid this was, among the fact that this mark at my feet could have as easily been made by someone dying, as it could have been Martin's doing.
A hall lined with lockers and stacks of boxes greeted me. The NV whirred as the image spazzed, I pulled the door shut after me as I gave it a moment to clear. Each time the camera did this my heart rate accelerated. Eventually, when I least expected it, the camera would die completely.
Damn it Miles, stop thinking like that! Pull yourself together. Not gonna die here.
As I was walking forward, one of the open lockers snapped shut. The visor flashed and buzzed with static, I waited until it was clear before I took soft steps towards the door.
"You have to find Wernicke. Only way."
I could see the eyes of the person inside glitter in NV as he stared back at me. I didn't wait around. Another source of light spilled from the end of the hall. A door was nestled in the wall on my left as I neared the light, but I could view through the small mesh, the theater and the images still playing across the room on the screen. No doubt the stairs on my right went up to the projector room, but an accessible room needed to be searched before I became lost or stuck someplace, which was usually the case in the dilapidated Asylum. Above the door a cross hung. It's meaning to me in this place, somehow lost. I found it to be a cruel artifact left by soulless men.
The light filled a stage wing of the theater, four or five steps raised up to a short upper portion of the floor, directly to a door that must've opened into the back area of the stage where I entered through. I couldn't recall a door present in the tiny closet I had been lost in for a full five minutes. Industrial shelves filled with broken boxes and files lined the wall on the right, numerous large planks of wood were left propped beside shelves. Best as spare shelves rather barricading doors, it didn't appear as though these materials had been bothered with.
I poked through the shelves and boxes, selecting a few folders that might hold details that would enlighten me further about this engine, or anything related to the Walrider folklore.
From: murkoffcorp . us . com
To: murkoffcorp . us . com
subject: re: FLESH EATING BACTERIA ?!
Wash those hands regularly. : )
on September 19, 2013, at 4:19 AM, GRANT
murkoffcorp . us . com wrote: Necrotizing fasciitis? Really? I fucking quit.
Trager's loopy uncle? I doubt G. Williard got far with that. I took in the date on the file, September, the nineteenth. This was an important document to record, it indicated that the Asylum was still running routinely until mid September. This correlated with the state of decay I had viewed the bodies scattered everywhere. A big however, my Mutemail admission was dated on the seventeenth. Given, I didn't receive the email until the Twenty-third. Most emails had a schedule release, Mutemail encouraged the feature.
What was relevant about these corresponding emails? Give me a minute, it's hard to keep these dates and files straight in my head. I sat down on the platform and set the file on my lap. Three emails, three emails, between five of Murkoff's staff, and myself. The relevant files had dates, that included the Whistle Blowers admission and Williard's 'resignation.' Was it important a date had been attached to the Mutemail, though it had been scheduled to be sent? It depended on whether or not my contact wanted me to know the date the message was composed. It could have been a Red Herring, but Mutemail was anonymous, it didn't matter if anyone knew the date or not, as long as it couldn't be proven who wrote it.
"…but seriously, fuck those guys."
There was no doubt in my mind, that my contact was dead. I think I should have felt some remorse, a tinge of guilt. But I couldn't. And I didn't crave the satisfaction that might've come if I imagined his death to have been painful, but I wanted to pretend this was all his fault, even if it weren't true. I don't know what happened here, I don't know who started the chain reaction to this corporate fuck up, but I hoped to never find out. I hoped to god I never found out.
There were no other files that struck my fancy, and some had been damaged by water at one point making their contents unintelligible. I returned to the dark hall, and paused to let my feed clear before I gazed up the stairs I passed previously. The steps creaked as I began up, I could feel the forgotten wood shift under my weight, the sounds of the projector beat at my skull the higher I climbed. I just wanted to get that key and get out of this place, even if it was back to the dormitories of the Asylum, my brain felt like it'd been punctured by a few hundred tiny needles.
More boxes, crates forgotten and stacked on a makeshift shelf assembled on the loft. Blood covered most of them, smelt decayed. I tried the door on my right, only to be disappointed. I should just accept that if it has the capacity to inconvenience me, it must. I messed around with crates before me, wondering if I could climb over. I crouched down and found several could be pushed out easily under the plank of wood. I crawled under the space, and kept low as I took in the other side. The image on the camera died for a few seconds before it flashed back, blinding me momentarily like a mean trick. Don't you turn against me too, camera.
The space was empty aside from a desk by the left wall, across the room another door. I tried the handle but it felt stuck. With a firm push from my shoulder the it gave, and I coughed as my ribs shifted. The next attic held yet more heaps of crates lining the walls, and a few in my path. I flinched when something shifted at the visors edge, expecting a variant or whatever else. When I blinked it was gone, and I was dubious if there had been something there to begin with. Still, my wrist and knees tingled, but I attributed it to paranoia. The images from the screen persisted to swirl in my mind, no matter where memories delved, they were there twisting. Burned into my retinas.
I continued, a bit shaken but I'd walk it off. I slipped over the scarce group of crates stacked in my path, in order to reach a light pouring from a window on the right side of the room. A shelf of reels of varying sizes was set beside the door. This was it.
A wheelie coatrack with thin hangars clinging to it, gave no resistance as I pushed it aside, my eyes fixed on the bright shape of the window. There was little I could make out through the mesh and glass, a broken corpse sat nearly decapitated, his head hung sideways by the remaining tendons. Another stack of reels sat beside him on the desk, and the audible click of the projector within the room. As I pushed the door open, the knob snapped out of my hand and I was face to face with one of the patient's glaring me in the eye. I leapt backwards hitting a crate with my thigh and tumbled to my side as the door slammed shut. Fuck!
Hard foot falls grew fainter and fainter as I crawled away from the door. Was I safe? He didn't chase me. What was that all about? Where did my camera go? It was still in my hand, the loop was too tight for it to slip loose.
I curled up between some boxes and wrapped an arm along my side where my ribs pulsed, some were indeed broken but not enough that it would hinder my movement if I was careful. Slamming into doors and falling onto hard floors just didn't help.
It sounded as though the patient had run off. I would be petrified if I wasn't so damn irritated with all of this. It had been a nasty surprise. He was gone, just needed to calm myself and untangle my body. The camera seemed fine, when I'd fallen I'd tried to break my fall on my right arm. My swollen hand tingled as sensation returned but otherwise, I couldn't feel it below the wrist. I avoid checking it through the NV as well, unsettled by what I might see. It was probably bleeding again.
I held no motivation to enter the room, key or not. I'm not exactly sure what I planned to do, but I didn't want to hang around the projector room. I returned to the loft with the stacked crates fitted on the makeshift shelf, and could see between the gaps the illumination from the doorway that was prior locked. I would continue to doubt the patient was gone, even if I did hear his footfalls leave. I couldn't afford to be reckless, it was becoming a bad habit. I avoided the issues because it disturbed me, and I didn't want to dwell too long on how much I was… changing. I wasn't the same man that crawled through the open window.
I stopped beside the crates to ponder this. Worst mistake of my career, but I was almost out, wasn't I? I was nearly done. Please let it be so.
There was no sound, nothing I could hear over the rattle of that damn projector. I slipped under the shelf and crawled over to peer around the doorframe, finding nothing much, not even a room. It was a small balcony with little space, aside from teasing me with a view of the projector room across the house. Looking to the wall once more I noted that there was a small decorative wall protrusion I might/could trust my weight on. I hopped the rail and set my feet on the edge, testing traction before scooting along, again with the camera shoved up into my face. The side of the lens that was cracked distorted the image of my hand pressed to the wall, making it look like the scarred remains of some of the patients.
I struggled not to shake at the thought with my back pressed into the crumbling plaster, as it was I had very little space to balance. I pushed myself around the inner edge and came to another of the corners that had given me trouble outside, but without the rain and chill I was able to make it with no complication. The rail ahead was bright with the blinding flicker of the movie. I took a moment to secure the damn camera before I leapt off.
I groaned when I hit, my shirt snapped free of the gash and I felt warm liquid spill across my skin. Damn it! I hauled myself into the room and looked around, making certain there was no more surprises. On my right the reel clinked, buzzing in my skull, a table beside it held stacks of films. The only other occupant was the lone corpse I had seen through the window, slumped and decomposing in its chair. The projector in front of it was cold and neglected. The key sat on the corner of the table beside the corpse. I snatched it up and fit it into my pocket.
Despite how the drone of the projector splint my thoughts, I needed to check what was up with my back. Try and stop the blood flow if I could. I sat by one of the balcony doors and pulled my shirt out enough to keep the fiber from getting caught on my index finger. Even if I wasn't beat to hell, I wouldn't be able to twist around and see the damage. I could only feel where the blood had clotted and dried in several layers on my skin, and the slick texture of the wound. The blood flow had stifled somewhat now that I was still, but whenever I took a breath, fresh blood seeped forth.
Not enough to kill me, not enough to slow me down. But it did concern me.
I removed my coat and set it aside. I tried not to look on its stained surface, as I tore the fabric of my shirt at the shoulder. It was mostly clean, I avoided the edges where the sewer water had seeped in and discolored the fabric. Christ, I was insane. I folded up the piece of cloth and studied it a moment, steeling myself for what I was about to do. I'm insane, the doctors are going to take one look at me and say, "My god, this man is insane." Shit… this is not going to work.
Tears stung my eyes as I forced the fabric into the gash. Burns, it burns like a bitch! Why am I doing this?! What is wrong with me?! I forced the material in as far as I could, and felt my throat clench as I gagged. Don't lose it now, keep it together. I leaned against the door as the nausea passed, my head spinning. What did I just do to myself? I touched the gash with a shaky hand and found it was already soaked, but blood was no longer spilling freely.
Shots of antibiotics. No doubt I would need them if I was going to survive, but I had to get out first. I made sure the cloth wouldn't come undone when I started moving, and made a shabby effort of tucking my shirttail in. I don't know why, routine I guess. My feet felt steadier than I expected, it must've been the adrenaline. Where did I need to go?
I pulled on my coat but couldn't feel relief in the return of its weight, or the sense of security it brought, having the extra layer to protect me from the stagnant air. I felt the weight in my pocket and recalled the key I had picked up. Needed to get back to the gate where the disciple had set me off on this little side quest. I decided most of this was redundant, but as much as I'd like, I couldn't argue with a locked gate.
The door that had been slammed in my face was jammed. I didn't need to go that way though, just needed to get to the floor and find my way back. I climbed over the rail of the balcony and lowered myself down, without straining my patched side.
A loud crunch came from the door, the light gleaming through the edge flashed as another powerful slam rocked it from the other side. I dropped down, a bit jarred by the short landing but able to get moving to the front of the theater where I had entered. I brought up the camera in time to swerve around the table of the dead, the beam that lit up the screen didn't reach the floor where the EXIT door awaited. I was aware I was fully exposed in the light and needed to move it. I stashed the camera as the door cracked, it was holding longer than I expected.
I jumped trying to climb back into the space I'd come down through, but the plywood I snagged flipped free and slide down effectively barring any handholds I could take. I was already trying to get up to pull it down, when the door gave a final cry and shattered.
I ducked down and slipped under the light, towards a set of tables stuffed beside the barred door. At first, I heard nothing, just the constant call of the projector as it ran till the end of days. I tried to sift under it, listen for what it concealed, what was the danger searching for me? The floor creaked, couldn't decide if it was a board shifting under me, or of the ominous danger that now filled the room. Soft foot falls slipped under the shadows as they carried weight, but that was all I could make out. Don't move, let the air settle.
Not Chris. Was it the twins? I blinked the sweat from my eyes and chanced to peer up and zoom, searching through the haze of light that interfered with the NV. Of what I could perceive, was the glint of eyes as a tall figure stalked at the back of the house and scanned out.
"His liver and tongue."
The voice had been so strong I thought I had actually heard it reverberate in the theater, but it had all been in my head. I curled down and pressed myself under the tables. I could see one, where was the other?
Worry about that later. The steps grew louder, overtaking the sound of the projector and the diseased Rorschach's twisting on the screen. I wanted to bury myself deeper under the table, but I was not hidden by shadows, I was in full view in the light and vulnerable. Exposed.
Don't look this way. Please, don't look this way. Subconsciously I curled my arms against my stomach and felt my body quivering; it was incredible the floor beneath me didn't rattle apart. I lowered my head and held as still as I could, despite my unsteady breath. It was painful enough clinging to my sides, but I swore I could feel it. A vibration in my skin. The concept unsettled me, I wanted to uncoil and escape myself, forget, but I was trapped. I was trapped in my mind and skin. No—
The steps paused a few feet away, directly in front of the screen. The floor boards shift as he turns, checking, searching. Does he know I'm here? He's only here because Farther Martin sent me.
I swallow and shift down just an inch, a sharp creek echoes in the room.
But it is overtaken by the sound of steps as the figure turns. Where is he going? I can't bear to look up, I just want to hide down in the wood and not be seen. The pad-pad of steps grows softer as their owner takes them away. Only then do I chance a glimpse up and risk raising my camera to view his direction. His walking to the other end of the theater, opposite of me. If he turns now….oh god.
I shove myself out from where I was curled down, and dive forward, my steps echo like thunder over the tick of the film snapping. The twin jerks around as I cut the corner, knocking a chair down with my knee as I blaze by. I don't glance back as I weave around the tables, my eyes fleck to either side fearful I might have missed the brother, that I'd reacted too soon. I reach the back of the theater and that beautiful exit in five steps.
Thoughts return as I near the bright hall, and beyond. The other twin, what if he's waiting outside? What if they've anticipated this? Not stupid, they were not stupid. Have I just killed myself?
I shoot from the theater and press myself to the wall, staring at the dark portal and the danger that lay within. No sign of either one, I was alone. Alone except for the dead Murkoff agent that lay beside the wall. I brushed by the corpse and tried the door above a short set of steps. It was locked but I was certain this was the door that had been locked when I was searching for the Recreational Hall.
There was another door, up several steps, probably on level with the first floor. I zipped by the theater, unaware if I could outrun the twins. They always tried to corner me, did they believe I was too fast or did they dislike putting the effort into catching me? I didn't want to know, I didn't want to figure it out. They wouldn't catch me, because I would always outsmart them.
I sprint to the top of the steps and haul the gate shut on the theater behind me. There remained no sign of either brother. This did not mean I was no longer being hunted. My escape would not be successful until I located the other twin, without getting killed. The brother was nearby, and there was a whole dark hall ahead of me.
A door on my left offered nothing but a small office, some books and files. I crept inside for a moment only to regroup and steady my thudding heart. Christ, I hated those guys. I wiped some of the dampness from my eyes and realized, I had pretty much given up on my hands. Fuck this place. Really. Fuck it.
I returned to the hall and tried the handle of the glass door on my left. It was locked but I already knew that. Habits. At my right was the segregation gate that I previously deduced to be locked, but was now opened into the room with the elevator where I began this small excursion. It looked much of the same as it did when I first came through, aside from the missing twin standing on the opposite side, waiting for me.
I stepped back, but caught myself before I could back up into his brother. I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me, never lowering my gaze from the bald individual. With the distance it was tricky to tell, but it looked as though the gate I initially entered, was now shut, presumably locked. I made slow progress to the other side, unable to put my faith in the door between us.
He watched me, occasionally slapping the flat side of his machete to his hand in anticipation. He said nothing to me, made no note of how slowly he'd kill me or utter a comment about what his brother had failed to do. I didn't spur a conversation either, but didn't feel relief in the silence. He slapped that large knife against his palm, there was blood there and cuts where the edge had nicked him. It never occurred to me as I moved that my camera was still armed, and in fact I was recording him.
When I reached the gate and the stairs, I kept my focus on him as I fumbled with the key. Nothing in his expression altered to reflect my progress, but he was a sociopath, he wasn't obligated to look disappointed. I wondered if he was unable to speak or express without his brother present, the concept struck a cord in me and I nearly dropped the key. After a minute of struggling, the latch clicked. I slipped behind the gate and slammed the door. I doubt it would help, but I locked it and kept the key with me. I worked hard for it, I could keep it as a souvenir. Wear it on my neck, it'd be a great conversation starter.
I passed the blood marked arrow up the winding steps and came to a dark upper floor. The scorched and ruined upper floor came to mind, where I had nearly fallen. I don't know why I thought of that, but I imagined this floor was on the same level.
Movement drew my attention to the left, I jerked back and watched a someone shut a gate behind them, then step across the corridor to one of the distorted glass doors. It looked like he was heading away from me, to where I couldn't tell. As I stood tense and waiting was I… hearing a choir? No, no, I couldn't, this was insane. I took a deep breath and changed the battery out of my camera.
Only one to go, and that's done. Power was getting low in the camera itself as well. There were plenty of towers that still functioned around this place, I might be able to charge it a bit. The thought of getting stuck in a room with my only light source 'temporarily' out of commission didn't set well with me.
Right beside me sat the open doors of the elevator, yellow brilliance spilling onto the clean carpet. At first I was startled to see it in good order, then recalled the elevator I had trapped Trager in was on the furthest side of the Asylum, the outdated and forgotten section. I entered and tried the buttons, but nothing would function without the key. I didn't keep the one from the last elevator, hadn't thought about it at the time believing I was escaping and the elevator was busted with that sick fuck pinned in it. That was IF they were universal, having the key only to learn they were not, would have made me sleep better at night. I gave up on the elevator, and ventured into the dark floor with my camera at the ready.
The steel door across the room gave a hollow clunk as the lock held. When I turned, I whirled away startled by, of all things, a god damn plant. Fuck. I recovered and glowered on the dried foliage by the wall, my heart hammered painfully against my ribs. I don't think I deserved that. Gently, I tipped it over with my foot and let the soil dump out with the dry roots. Better keep moving, just try not to get startled by plants anymore. Fuck, that was stupid.
A few feet along the wall sat another door of stainless steel. The handle turned easily in my grip, modern and practically brand new. I shut it for the time, and crossed to the adjacent wall, and the segregation gate there. It was locked, but it was good to know for sure. Lamps beyond the gate shone down on the carpet, but I was appreciating my return to the soothing shadows. This floor, where I was right now, felt kind of nice. Even if there was no music, I didn't feel the immediate danger creeping into my person. Just like when I first entered, everything had looked normal from a glance. From a glance….
I slipped through the steel door and shut it behind me, as my usual precaution. I was in another kitchen, with all the modern updates Murkoff incorporated for their staff. It was with a lot of space, between the countertops set up in the rooms center and against the walls with a few abandoned and empty bowls scattered around. Rafters were fixed to hang above these kitchenware islands, adorned with hooks and a pot on nearly each one. Most the free space along the walls was covered with cabinets or freezers, no doubt full of provisions. A few other odd end sort of kitchen utilities were set up, such as the mobile shelves stacked with trays, and counter space with numerous sinks lined up for the kitchen staff.
No bodies, no blood. From all appearances it was a normal kitchen someplace ordinary, such as the moon.
Or almost so. I stood motionless and listened as metal clinked, and searched around for a set of pots that swayed gently on their hooks. A draft. It was a draft, air moving through the vents. Change in pressure. I was shaking, seemed like I was shaking constantly now and that frightened me, about as much as the big fuckers grin.
I went to one of the cabinets and opened it, hunting for something to hold me until I reached the town. After a few minutes of searching I had very little to show for my efforts, and gave up. The survivors must have hit the kitchen for rations, many were left emaciated while Murkoff was in control of their lively hood. It didn't appear that their situation had improved, since then.
I did find a package of individually wrapped honey cakes, there were only two left but that was enough. Just some sugar and carbs to keep me going, and some water from the tap. I did get off the thick layer of blood that had formed on my hands, which resulted in black, watery stains around my sleeves and dark speckles marking up my knuckles. As long as I didn't look like some serial killer.
I felt better with the sugar in my system. I had a want to curb some of the ache in my head by eating something, but it was too soon to tell if low blood-sugar was the culprit. If anything, it felt like the noise was getting worse. My thoughts crawled through my brain, I sometimes didn't see the shapes, then there would be static but I wasn't staring through the visor.
One door to a pair was left ajar, I pressed it open entering into another cafeteria. Long tables set in rows, chairs stacked or tossed into piles across the floor. On the other side of the room was a human shape, silhouetted against the pale light of the windows. I shut the door gently, and worked my way around the room, eyes locked on the person.
A door on the right side of the room was locked. I debated a moment, wondering where exactly I was meant to go. Clearly I was still on this 'mission' Father Martin had set me on, I had achieved the key from behind the light… Where did the disciple say I was headed? The house of God. The house of God would be a church. Well, I knew where I would end up, but how did I get there?
I walked to check the other side for a door, but moved closer than safe to the man, and paused to stare out the window. He was just gazing through the fogged glass, into the dead of night, as the rain streaked and trickled down in long, fading lines. His head was bowed and his hands clasped together, but I could make out the mutilation to his lips and face.
We stood in silence for a moment, still as the night waiting for something. A brilliant ark split the sky, filling the room with a white haze. I'm certain he knew I was there but he refused to acknowledge me. I don't know if there was an unspoken settlement shared between us, or if the man felt the same as I did. Whatever it was, it was there and there was nothing to say about it. Without word or gesture I resumed my path, finding a door left ajar on the other side of the room. I shut it after me, and met another door barricaded in the usual hasty fashion.
A dead end and side table sat at the right, I turned left and moved forward to check around a corner on my right. It was short hall with the lone door blocked with plywood, I paused as the image in the visor sputtered, then moved on. I was nearly shocked by the lack of gore and mayhem, though the rancid musk of dried out skin clung to the air, it wasn't the overpowering rot of fetid intestines. I wanted to revel in the radical change, but it was an illusion. A—
I ducked my head out of the gleam of the visor and blinked my eyes, working out the harsh impression. Spots dotted the edges of my vision. Keep moving. Just keep moving. The hall was completely empty, save for me. I pressed my fingers against the base of my neck and let the pain subside as I shuffled forward.
The lamp at the halls end expressed enough light I could take off the nightvision, for a short time. A door opened on my right, entering into the room that was most likely boarded up from the short hall I passed. I checked around the corner, believing the humming I felt might be interfering with my hearing. Sometimes I sensed the noise, but other times, like now in the near silence of the room, I thought the sound was somehow imagined by me. I tried to pop my ears by adjusting my jaw, or yawning, but it didn't help. Like when I first came into the mountain region, that pressure build up. But now, it was hornets in my head.
When did I start thinking hornets?
The room appeared to be another recreational room, or lounge. There was a pool table across from the door, with a game set up and Q-balls scattered. A few stools were scattered around, beside a thin counter for refreshments. I stepped further into the room, through its center chairs had been lined up before a screen, beside one of the large decorative support columns. Along the wall on my right, chairs had been placed before computer terminals left to display login screens of blue, a few remained black and inactive. A station I could use to charge my camera, if I was so inclined. It wasn't the highest priority on my list, to be honest. That might've been another mistake on my part.
I turned to the monotone scratch of static playing on the large screen, that the chairs were set to face. I was startled by the man knelt, speaking calmly to his deity. It took a moment for my panic to fade, as I reassured myself he was fully absorbed in his prayer. The camera was leveled beside my chest, but I adjusted its position to film properly.
"The static again. A patient knelt in prayer. Maybe he bought Father Martin's line of bullshit. Maybe he hears what I hear but more clearly. Maybe it's his way out of this place. The Priest called it the Gospel of Sand."
For a while I stood near him, watching the screen in somewhat of a trance. I didn't realize I had lowered the camera until my index finger brushed the crisp material of my jeans. I glanced at them briefly, before I returned my focus to the screen, and the image that was there but… it couldn't be. No. But, if I squinted and turned my head sideways, working to understand what it was. In the static, I WAS seeing something. A form, a shape, a face. Staring back at me. And the patient saw it too.
I blink and I see Rorschach tests that look like swarming insects and infected surgery wounds.
The hair on my neck stood on end and that subtle stabbing in my temple resumed at force. Staring at static would make you go blind. But I couldn't help it. I backed away, bumping the side of a chair with my leg before I had ripped my gaze away.
What I had seen in the lounge was no coincidence, no delusion. But what was I seeing? What had I witnessed? It was a hallucination from the stress, amplified by the pulse of static. In the shadows, I was seeing shapes every time I blinked, why not in the dead channel. It was getting worse, the vertigo. If I tried to recall the shapes, the pain intensified like a hot poker twisting through the base of my skull. Until my vision doubled and the floor tilted.
I made it to the doorframe before I collapsed. My head was aching so bad I was nauseated, but I was done throwing up. That buzzing, in the air and everywhere, I couldn't escape it, not until there was distance. Not until I had run away. But I couldn't even stand, when I raised my head a new wave of pain surged through my skull.
I switched the camera off and just lay by the door listening to the sound in the walls, the prayers of the forgotten people as they begged for the salvation they had been promised. This would pass, it always did. If I gave my body the time to catch up, I would be good to go. I took steady breaths and just rested for a short spell, I shut my eyes trying to understand what it was they were asking. What was it we had in common?
To escape the nightmare once and for all.
Kudos to Markiplier for seeing the face in the TV during 'Static Prayer.' That was totally trippy.
Auther Note: DLC is supposed to have the conclusion to Outlast in it, and I have some theories what will happen but I'll not post them. Miles continues to believe his contact is dead, and I think he's on to something. Though I am braced for a cruel twist
As always thank you to readers, reviewers, and lurkers. Lemme know if there's anything that could be changed, I'm always open to corrections and alterations. Spoiler - This is a story for the fans of Outlast, y'know