White Lightning

The next morning's hangover arrived exactly on time. Miles took a shower in the motel's combination bathtub/shower and walked to a nearby convenient store to purchase some Advil and water. He laid back down until the medicine kicked in, allowing him to concentrate finally. He wondered how drunk Waylon had been the previous night. Judging by the list of text messages Miles had found upon waking, Waylon had been sloshed.

[9:09:32]Miles you are missing it you ass I wanted you to be here boooooo boooooo I am booing you asshole.

[9:45:02]I'm sorry I booed you. That was mean. You should come here still we are staying another hour!

[10:12:40]There's a guy here who looks like you except hotter ahahahah jk ur cute

[10:35:52]Eddie tried to take my phone away so I could not text wheeeeee

[11:23:49]I thnik abot u alottt

Where was this guy's auto-correct? Miles deleted them all with a sigh. The one from after midnight was completely illegible and mostly written in nonsensical emoji. He knew that most of the problem was his own head being unable to drop the idea that he and Waylon were meant to be together. But a small part of the blame definitely lay with Waylon. Miles wasn't imagining it—his friend enjoyed leading Miles on and keeping him around. It was that attitude that kept Miles' keen investigative skills convinced that Waylon was definitely still feeling for him. Eddie could probably sense it. Maybe that was why he despised Miles. Still, Waylon refused to cut off contact with his best friend.

Once his headache was gone, Miles was able to write some blog entries for his clients. Writing bullshit for corporate websites was not his life's calling, but investigative journalism did not always pay the bills. When he was younger, Miles had traveled and written articles in nationally published magazines—even won an award for exposing some inconvenient truths about the Murkoff Corporation.

Unfortunately, it had also crippled his career. Companies were afraid of men like Miles that sought to bring light to the darkest corners of their businesses. Everyone had shadows and skeletons hidden away. Murkoff made it personal when they went after Miles' personal life. After that, his feud with the corporation had reached biblical proportions, and Miles dreaded the outcome. But hey, David ended up bringing down Goliath. Miles just needed to find his sling-shot.

In the mean time, Miles wrote up posts for different companies around Colorado. He wound up in the State following his ex-boyfriend. It was alright—he didn't love or hate Colorado. He made a passable living writing blogs for ski lodges, outdoor shops, rock climbing rentals, hiking tours, and other companies that sought to appear approachable to the young, active community around Boulder and Denver. It was hours of writing about "sweet views" and "sick jumps" to draw visitors to certain areas and activities. Whatever. It paid.

Miles was just posting an update for one ski lodge about an upcoming sale on used ski equipment. In reality, the snow was leaving for the season and they were going to get rid of the most badly damaged rentals from the past season. Miles managed to make it sound like a great deal completely worth the time and effort to get deep discounts on almost unusable shit. The company was satisfied; that's what mattered.

Finally, Miles could focus on the story that held his true passion. He drove through the main road in Leadville and past the town a short ways until he spotted the place Billy had mentioned on the phone the previous evening. There were dozens of trucks and cars parked out in a flat field, muddy from melted ice and frost. The sky was overcast and cold which made freezing rain a real threat. There were several stalls with different color tarps for roofs and people milling about with grocery bags brought from home. Miles walked around looking for Billy and surveying the goods. There were vegetables, homemade pies and treats, local honey, and a plethora of strange goods like jewelry and candles.

Miles was staring hard at something titled "meat pie" when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder from behind.

"Mister Upshur," said Billy, startling Miles into turning around. "Oh hey, uh, sorry if I scared you."

"What? Oh, no. It's nothing. What is this place?" Miles asked, gesturing around the area.

"First Saturday. Lots of the local farmers gather up. Kind of part farmer's market, part flea market, part gossip circle. The veterinarian I use for the cows comes here to talk to the farmers and offer his business. He gave me a ride. Thought you might want some good, local food?"

"Why the fuck would you think that?" Miles asked, forgetting himself for the moment. Billy's eyes went wide behind their frames. "I mean, yeah, local food. I just don't know what that would be. You lead the way."

The young man seemed at ease wearing a flannel shirt tucked into jeans, and a belt complete with a large, shiny buckle. Miles felt slightly out of place wearing his brown leather jacket, dark jeans, and a navy, woolen sweater. A few men wearing cowboy hats stopped talking when he approached and watched him pass. Only at a backwards place like this do the people wearing cowboy hats stop to stare at someone else for standing out.

Billy walked up a large barbecue pit, smoking away near the outskirts of the area. He ordered two pulled pork sandwiches and handed one over to Miles. The reporter stared at the sloppy sandwich as they found an empty picnic table to claim. Miles worried for a moment that his hangover was not as conquered as he had originally thought. Billy was already eating away happily with sauce smeared all over his young face. Miles took a tentative bite.

"Holy shit," Miles said, his mouth full of pork. "That's good."

"Right?" Billy asked, grinning with his cheeks puffed out from food. "My neighbor supplies a lot of the pigs. They're delicious."

Well, that was slightly more than Miles wanted to hear, but still. Damn, the sandwich was good. The two men finished their food and washed it down with fresh squeezed lemonade an old woman was making right in front of their eyes. There was nothing really amazing about it, but Miles was grateful for the drink anyways.

"Really nice of you to treat me like this," Miles said as the pair sipped lemonade and wandered aimlessly through the aisles of strange merchandise. "You didn't have to."

"That's okay. I, uh, wanted to," Billy said, taking a hurried sip and turning his head. Okay, the boy had definitely blushed that time.

"You sure you're twenty?" Miles asked, staring at the blushing young man and lifting his hand up near Billy's face.

"Yeah? Why do you ask?" Billy asked, staring at the approaching hand with a nervous expression.

"You seem younger," shrugged Miles, wiping his thumb across Billy's cheek roughly. "Or maybe that's just the sauce on your face."

"I get that a lot, but, no, I'm twenty. I'll be twenty one next week actually," Billy said.

"So you're almost twenty one, you live alone, and you take care of animals?" Miles asked.

"Cows, yeah. We have a lot of them out on the land. I don't live alone though. My grandfather that I mentioned. He actually lives with me," Billy admitted, shrugging as though it was no big deal.

"Was he the one out hunting?" Miles pressed.

"Well, about that, you see, the thing is, uh, you could probably say that..." Billy was a terrible liar. Miles chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Okay I lied. It's juts me and a sick old man out there. I have to be careful. You understand?"

Miles' eyebrows shot up. The truth? The boy had told the truth. Well, that was refreshing. "Yeah. No. I mean, I understand that completely." A few excited shoppers shoved their way past the slow walking pair in search of a bargain.

"I'm sorry Mister Upshur. I did not want to lie, but grandfather hates visitors. We've had trouble in the past with thieves or dumb kids harassing the cattle," Billy said.

"No no, I get it. Okay so the truth is you live with your grandfather, take care of some cows, and don't like strangers," Miles said, nodding along as he listed off the major points. "Seems legit. So did you talk to the old man about potentially letting me ask him some questions?"

"I did," Billy said, stepping ahead of Miles and walking between a couple of stalls to allow them to be out of the flow of traffic. Billy tossed his empty lemonade glass into an empty oil drum that was acting as a trash can; Miles followed his example. Once they were not in danger of being trampled, Billy met Miles' gray stare. "He doesn't want to talk to you. I'm sorry, I really tried."

Miles frowned down at the muddy ground. Billy's grandfather did not want to talk to him. Not 'Grandfather knows nothing about Murkoff' or 'Grandfather is too infirm or demented to remember anything' but 'Grandfather does not want to talk to you.' Looks like 'Max Mustermann' knew something after all.

"I understand," Miles said, giving a shrug and keeping his sad expression. "I came out here on a long shot anyways. Probably lose the job before I can get a suitable piece written." Miles glanced out of the side of his eye to see if his sad-sack routine was working. Billy looked close to tears. Poor sap.

"Well, you tried. I really appreciate that," Miles said, smiling sadly as he met Billy's dark blue gaze.

"Mister Upshur..."

"Mister Mustermann..."

"Huh?"

"Oh, sorry, I though maybe there was a chance you had your grandfather's last name," Miles explained.

"Oh, no. My last name is Hope," Billy offered. "Do you think you could give me a lift home?"

"Sure," Miles shrugged, not thinking much of it. Not like he had anything else to do in that fuckhole town anyways. Maybe he could leave that night and offer to take Waylon out to Sunday breakfast for their own, private celebration of his new job.

"See, if you were to drive me home, grandfather would see what a kind person you are, and be forced to talk to you at least a little. That's the best I can do. After that, whether he opens up or not is on you," said Billy.

Miles was genuinely surprised. The simple, easy to read boy, had actually concocted a sneaky plan to get Miles an audience. But why? Miles beamed at Billy and the boy blushed horribly and bit his lower lip.

Oh. That was why. Miles smiled his most roguish grin for the young man. "You're alright, kid. Helping me out like this? That's really sweet of you."

Billy was too flustered by the smile and compliment to form a response. Miles just chuckled and slapped Billy on the shoulder, leading him back through the shopping area toward his jeep, parked out in the muddy field. "You want anything before we go? It's my treat. I don't know what all they have around here, but maybe you'd like some..." Miles stopped at the closest random stall and found himself staring at a man smiling and proudly displaying several missing teeth, "...white whiskey? Huh, never heard of it."

"That's moonshine," Billy whispered in Miles ear, making the reporter pause for a moment. Fuck. Had it really been that long since anyone had touched him or breathed near his ear? Miles felt like some kind of ignorant virgin getting a semi from an innocent whisper. The silence continued until it became almost awkward.

"I'll take some," Miles finally blurted out, retrieving his wallet from his jacket. Dammit. But he had to do something to get out of the situation. Soon the two men were buckling into the jeep and Miles headed toward Billy's home with the hooch in the backseat.

The drive to Billy's house was only about twenty minutes, and Miles rarely had trouble making conversation. He covertly interrogated the young man. He learned that Billy lived with only his grandfather and had since he was ten years old. He worked with the cattle everyday and upkeep of the property. This was in addition to taking care of his grandfather, which had become a full time job as the man grew older. When asked about his grandfather's age, Billy claimed not to know and became evasive.

"So what do you do for fun around here? I mean, besides moonshine," Miles asked as they turned down the dirt driveway that led to Billy's house.

"I don't drink moonshine," Billy said, grinning. "I don't drink at all."

"Why not?" Miles asked.

"Because I'm not twenty one?" Billy answered, as though it should be obvious.

Miles cracked up, and continued to laugh as he put the jeep into park. He leaned over the steering wheel, trying hard to stop himself but finding it difficult—especially with the offended look Billy had on his face. The young man adjusted his glasses indignantly.

"I'm sorry. I did not know that kids like you really existed," Miles said, finally catching his breath. He grinned over at his companion and saw Billy's ears behind his glasses were bright red. "Listen," Miles said, reaching into the backseat to retrieve the bottle of white whiskey he'd purchased earlier, "take this. It's an early birthday present, from me." Miles grinned as he held out the bottle, but Billy made no move to take the gift.

"I can't accept that," Billy said, a scandalized expression on his young face.

"Why not?" Miles asked, confused, his arm starting to fall slightly where it was holding out to Billy. "Take it, it wasn't that expensive."

"No, but I'm not twenty one," Billy reiterated, enunciating as though Miles were hard of hearing.

"I know that, but you're close enough. I mean, most people have had a drink before they're twenty one. This stuff is probably absolutely god-awful, but one sip won't kill you. Well, probably won't," Miles amended before continuing, "anyways, you can keep it until you're twenty one if that makes you feel more comfortable."

"If I take this, you could get in serious trouble for providing alcohol for a minor," Billy said seriously.

Miles blinked a few times. This kid was for real? "Fuck," muttered Miles, chuckling at himself. "Fine. Forget it. I'll keep it."

"Or maybe," Billy said, quietly in the parked jeep, "...you could give it to me on my birthday, when I am turning twenty one."

"But that's not until next week, right? What day?" Miles asked, frowning.

"Next Tuesday," Billy said, a hopeful expression creeping into his blue eyes shining behind their lenses.

"I might be gone by that time..." Miles said, feeling awkward suddenly.

"Well, your business card said you're from Denver. It's only about two hours? A little more? You could make the trip for my birthday?" Billy's expression was nervous.

Miles was silent for several moments before he finally managed, "Uhh...sure kid. We'll see." He quickly opened the jeep door and let himself out, waiting as Billy before walking up to the door. Billy opened the screen and unlocked the door, holding it open for Miles.

The small home looked how Miles would have expected. There was a sitting area with some old cloth couches that looked well-used, and a rocking chair in the corner. All the furniture was facing the fireplace and Miles did not see a television anywhere.

"No television?" Miles asked, the question leaving his lips before he could censor his thoughts.

"Oh yeah, no, there's no cable out here, and we can't really get satellite for some reason..." Billy answered, evasively. "I read a lot of books."

"But yesterday I could have sworn I heard..." Miles started.

Billy cut off the question as he locked the door behind them. Miles was momentarily stunned at the considerable number of padlocks in addition to the chain and regular locks on the door. Billy led the way through a doorway that led into the tiny kitchen in the area. The kitchen had yellowing linoleum on the floor and Formica counter tops that were starting to fade and crack. The cabinets looked worn despite a fresh coat of white paint. A strange noise originated from a room off the back of the kitchen. Billy led the way through the kitchen and stopped at the doorway.

"Hey Grandpa," Billy said brightly. There was no response though Miles could see the boy smile. "Just got done with Dr. Connors. Went over to the green market and ended up getting a ride home with my friend, Mister Upshur." Billy waved his hand at Miles, beckoning him to come closer.

Miles slowly walked up to the doorway and peeked over Billy's shoulder, made awkward by the boy being slightly taller than him. "Hi Grandpa," said Miles brightly, waving as he scanned the room.

It was a small bedroom and the main area was occupied by a huge chair. To call it a wheelchair did not begin to describe the contraption. The machinery had bleeping monitors, oxygen tanks, and hooks to hold IV bags. The person in the chair was also a shock. Billy's grandfather was old. No, he was fucking ancient. Grandfather was sitting in the life support chair with tubes coming from both nostrils. Miles was unsure if the elderly man was lucid. He stared in their general direction with unblinking, cloudy blue eyes. The man's mouth appeared slack. There was a constant hum and whir of the different monitors and machines, but none of them sounded like the buzzing noise Miles had heard the previous day.

"Billy," wheezed the elderly man. Miles could detect the faint trace of a German accent. "Why did you bring him here?"

Miles was shocked. The old man looked wrinkled with skin like parchment and a dull gaze, but he spoke with intelligence and precision despite the wheezing inhales between words. "Hi. Miles Upshur. I'm writing up a story about the Murkoff Corporation. Billy thought you might remember something. Anything you can tell me would be appreciated," Miles said, giving his most charming smile.

The old man's expression never changed, remaining slack and his eyes unfocused. He flicked his finger and the entire life-support chair swiveled to face Billy straight on. "No, Billy. You need to make your friend leave."

"No, we really are just friends, I assure you," Miles said, holding up his hands. "I'm not really into younger guys. They don't know what they're doing, you know what I mean?" No response. "You know what I mean."

The chair did not change from its position directly on Billy. "I know what you are thinking, Billy. And after seeing this man I can tell you, you are making a dire mistake. No."

The buzzing sound that Miles had heard the previous day started up again. It was so dim at first that Miles suspected it was one of the many machines in the room, but soon it became so pervasive that he was shocked no one else in the room was reacting to the noise. Miles began to look around, even looking backwards into the kitchen in order to find the origin.

"Take care of that. Now," ordered the old man. Billy turned and bumped into Miles as he rushed to leave the room. The buzzing noise seemed to follow him out of the room, dying down considerably once Billy was out of sight.

Miles stood in the room, staring at the old man. He took a chance and sat himself down on a small wooden chair situated near the small single bed in the room that was made up with sheets resembling a hospital more than a home. The life-support chair whirred to life as the man turned it with his finger until he was facing Miles dead on, same unchanged expression.

"Billy said you wrote scheisse for the internet," the old man wheezed as Miles retrieved his flip pad and began writing, starting with the foreign word. He would look that up later.

"Companies pay me to write entries in their blogs. Daily, weekly, monthly, on demand. It's mostly pieces that make the company look good, highlight events, and announce sales and special events." Miles shrugged, doing his best to appear harmless.

"I do not buy that for a second," the old man breathed. "No entertainment writer could happen upon this address by chance alone. Why are you really here?"

"I was looking up past employees to get stories about some of the old timers. The crew that used to run with Rudolf Wernicke, before he died," Miles said, sitting back in the chair with his flip pad open on his leg. "And I'm not the only one playing false. Max Mustermann? No way in hell that's your name," scoffed Miles, smirking at the old man. According to Miles' research, 'Max Mustermann' was the German equivalence of 'John Doe.'

"I knew Wernicke," the old man wheezed. Miles found the unchanging expression disconcerting, but he kept his face neutral and leaned closer as the man spoke. "He was a twice damned fool."

"You knew Wernicke? Did you know anything about Project Walrider," Miles asked. If he had expected some kind of change in the man's appearance, he was disappointed. There was still no change though the man did pause for several moments, the machines beeping and whirring along normally behind him.

"Project Walrider was a mistake," he said, finally. "If you know about the project, then you also must know that it was a failure."

"It was a failure, but there was talk about continuing it. Wernicke's original notes and research—it's all about nanoscopic machines and turning humans into factories. During your time it was a failure, but they had theorized about how to create the perfect host..they wanted to experiment on the mentally unstable, the criminally insane..."

"You know a lot for an Internet writer," the old man wheezed.

"I'm a reporter in addition to the Internet thing. I'm onto Murkoff. I exposed a scam they had going on overseas, scamming villages out of their own damn water. Kept my eye on them ever since. I managed to get an inside informant helping me with the information. Seems some classified documents from Wernicke's era surfaced recently. I'd kill to learn all I can about the man before he died," Miles said, noting the way the machines' volume began to increase slightly, the breathing whirring faster and the beeping increasing in rhythm despite the elder's slack expression.

"Why would these things resurface? The project was a failure. Dead and buried along with its creator," the old man wheezed, his tone unchanged. "A suitable host was never found."

"Well, the thing is," Miles said, staring hard at the old man, "Murkoff recently acquired themselves an asylum." After he made the admission, a new, louder alarm began sounding. The beeping and whirring raised to a fevered pitch and Miles flew to his feet, dropping his notepad to the ground and looking around the room in horror.

Billy ran into the room, rushing to his grandfather's side and began checking dials and monitors. "Go wait in the living room," Billy ordered Miles. The reporter picked up his notepad and followed the instructions. Once he was alone in the living room, Miles pulled out his camcorder and began a quick recording of the interior of the house. He filmed the entrance way, kitchen, and then wandered down another hall leading to the opposite end of the house. He gently pushed on one door. Tiny bathroom that looked clean though run down. He pushed on another. Coat closet. The last door in the hallway was shut tight, but Miles looked around before opening it.

Inside the room were two twin beds with denim colored blankets, a stack of clothing in the corner that had failed to hit the hamper, and a desk complete completely covered with books and magazines. Billy's room? It was normal. Very normal, except for the lack of electronics. Miles recorded it quickly, before turning the camera off and concealing it once again. He shut the door and walked back toward the living room, almost running into a pale Billy returning from the kitchen.

"Hey. I helped myself to the bathroom. Hope that's okay," Miles said, giving a sheepish grin.

"Oh...yeah sure, it's no problem. Yeah," Billy said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. His wavy hair was messier than usual. "I'm really sorry about that. I think I mentioned to you that grandfather is very old."

"Old yeah, but all his screws are still there," Miles said, meaning for it to sound encouraging, though Billy just looked at the carpet and nodded. "I hope I did not cause too much trouble back there..."

"Oh. No, he's very old. It's not that unusual really. I know that he's ornery and...not very easy to talk to. But he's the only family I have. He adopted me and took care of me and he helped me through a really dark time in my life," Billy said.

"Wait, that man isn't your blood grandfather?" Miles asked.

"He adopted me legally; that's just as good," Billy said defensively, his dark blue eyes hurt behind their lenses.

"No, of course, I know," Miles said, apologetically. "Well. Do you think he might be able to talk to me more tomorrow? I feel like we were making really good progress before everything hit the fan."

"You...you would come back?" Billy asked, his blue eyes dilating at he looked Miles up and down.

"Sure, do you think your grandfather might have any documents filed away? Anything about Murkoff I could glance at?"

"I could check in the attic," Billy offered before biting his lip and looking down at his feet. "But um, I hope you're not coming back just to see grandfather..." Billy rubbed the toe of his work boot into the carpet.

"Uh...yeah. About that..." Miles wanted to tell him that he had told the truth in the backroom. He was thirty-two years old and not interested in any relationship at that time, especially not with someone so young. But Miles knew that this kid and his grandfather could be ammunition in the case against Murkoff. If a little bit of flirting could help, well... "It's not just to see him. I am really hoping that we can be friends. Hell. I promise you, I will bring back that white lightning for your birthday. How does that sound?"

"O-okay," Billy stuttered, his cheeks blooming with heat. Miles scratched at his brown hair, suddenly feeling very out of place.

"I should get back to my motel to let them know I'll be staying another night. Thanks for all your help. Hope we can see each other tomorrow," Miles said, before walking to the door. He waited for Billy to undo the considerable lock collection before walking quickly to his jeep. The sun was setting and it was getting unbearably cold, even with his jacket and sweater. Miles drove back to the motel thinking about the shy young man. Seduction could be used in some cases to get information. Miles was not above it. But somehow, in this situation, it felt wrong. But then again, when had that ever stopped Miles in the past? The boy was so easily flustered, and definitely not unattractive. A little bit of flirting could go a long way...