Chapter 4: Happy Birthday

Miles was behind on work, and his hangovers seemed to grow more acutely painful when he was behind. He spent the entire morning working on different blogs and making sure they would update at the agreed upon time with the right information. The more troublesome websites wanted several micro-updates a day which took a lot of work to make sure there was a steady stream of advertisements and fake exuberance forced on the eyeballs of the website viewers. Miles died a little inside each time he had to add a second exclamation point to an update about a sale on carabiners. How excited can one really get for such an item?

A grumbling alerted him to his own hunger and Miles drove down the road to a diner for some brunch and coffee. He brought his laptop to allow him to continue working, though he shifted his focus to the investigation in Leadville. Miles mapped out all of the meetings he had, the information he had learned, and the questions he still had. Unfortunately, the most distracting question at that time seemed to be what to do about the Billy situation.

Some people find out that someone is interested in them, and then their own feelings begin to develop. Miles found himself to be quite the opposite. Once he found out someone was interested in him, he was immediately suspicious. What kind of person would find him desirable as something more than a quick fuck? Miles assumed there was something wrong with any person that felt that way about him. His self-loathing knew no bounds.

Waylon had loved him, and Miles had pushed him away because of it. He hid behind excuses. He had never officially broken up with Chris after he had been committed, so Miles continued to claim loyalty to his ex-boyfriend. He argued that anything sexual could ruin the wonderful friendship they already had together. And then someone else had pursued Waylon, and stolen his attention away. Of course, that was when Miles realized how fucking in love he had been with his neighbor. Too little; too late.

Would Billy be the same way? Was Miles making up excuses again? Youth, inexperience, being a source...were these just more ways for Miles to avoid getting into a relationship with someone that could prove a good match for him? He was so fucking tired of being lonely. And Billy seemed to think they had a lot in common. Dead parents wasn't exactly the best common ground to use to build a lasting relationship.

Miles' cellphone buzzed in his hand, and he looked down to see it was a reminder popping up. Oh shit. It was Tuesday. Miles quickly directed a call to the now familiar number. "Hey. Clear your schedule for tonight. You're coming out with me."

Thanks to daylight savings time, it was still sunset when Miles pulled up to Billy's house at seven that night. He'd gotten plenty of work in that day, as well as a long nap, and felt ready for the evening.

He opened the screen door and knocked for a moment, waiting until Billy opened the door. The boy looked freshly washed, his silver streaked hair fluffy and clean. He was wearing a light gray sweater over blue jeans and blushed behind his glasses as Miles held out a gift.

"It's the moonshine. You said I could give it to you on your birthday," Miles explained as Billy took the bottle.

"Thanks. I just need to see grandfather for a second before we leave," Billy said, motioning Miles into the house.

The backroom was unchanged from before except the life-support chair was turned facing a small radio that was playing only static. Billy walked into the room and began checking monitors and gauges and hooking up different tubes and wires. Miles leaned against the doorway, staring at the old man who remained as comatose as usual. Billy excused himself to get some supplies from a back closet, leaving Miles alone with the old man. The static from the radio was an unsettling new addition and Miles wondered if he should perhaps offer to turn it off.

"I've been thinking a lot about this Project Walrider," Miles said, casually. "What kind of weapon is it supposed to be, anyways?" The continued whir and beep of the machinery was the only answer for several moments.

"The Walrider is not a weapon. It is a group of self-perpetuating nanites that operate as one consciousness," the old man finally said, wheezing as he struggled to speak. "Together the nanites have great strength and power." At the end of his statement, a faint trace of talk radio was heard coming through the static, catching Miles attention for a moment before he turned back to the disabled man.

"Great strength and power to do what, though?" Miles pressed, gray eyes narrowing as he listened closely.

"There is the question. The scientists wanted the swarm to be a sentient being, able to operate of its own will. They may have succeeded in creating a type of consciousness within the nanites, but the Walrider Project never achieved the ability for an independent swarm; a host was necessary."

"What could the host do?" Miles asked

"Someone that was able to direct and house the swarm would have complete control over its strength and abilities. But, they never found a host," the old man wheezed, and the interference on the radio suddenly whooshed louder and then there was nothing but static again. Billy walked into the room and began placing additional supplies on the life-support chair.

"Okay," Billy said after he stood up from his adjustments. "Do you need to do anything before we leave, grandfather?"

"No," the old man wheezed. "If you insist on going, I cannot stop you."

"I'll see you in the morning," Billy promised, walking out and closing the door. After they were across the house, Miles heard the soft talk radio picking back up through the static.

"Are you sure it's okay to leave him? We can just stay around here if you would rather," Miles offered.

"No, Grandfather is having a good day. He's set for the night and I have a beeper in case there are any emergencies. He's just on his same old rant about not wanting me to get close to you," Billy said, giving a shy smile.

"Alright. Well, I asked around town and I guess the best, and only, bar is The Hat, so that's where we're going," Miles said, walking to his jeep and getting in while Billy let himself in on the passenger side. The atmosphere felt tense and Miles guessed it was due to their kiss the previous day. Billy was not his usual chatty self. Miles attempted to put on the radio, but there was so much buzzing static that he gave up. Billy seemed upset about the radio for some strange reason. Miles assumed it was some type of atmospheric disturbance since he had heard the same static on the radio in the old man's room.

They arrived at the Manhattan—called The Hat by the locals—before long, and it was, in fact, the only bar in town. The outside resembled an old movie theater with a vertical marquee sign with chipped, fading paint and neon letters that were mostly burnt out. Miles parked and waited for Billy to meet him before pointing.

"That's where I'm saying. The Leadville Motor-Inn," said Miles, gesturing.

"Hey! That's where they found the dead hooker last year. They said it was an overdose. I always wondered though," Billy said out loud. Miles frowned at the news.

"Any idea what room she died in?" he asked in a small voice.

"No, why?" Billy asked. His guileless, confused expression was quickly becoming Miles' favorite.

Miles shook his head and led the way into The Hat, only to find out that inside was not much better. Light up beer advertisements and some low hanging aluminum lighting were the only illumination in the dusky dive bar. There was a pool table though it was crowded with rough looking older men that seemed to have brought their own equipment and were completely immersed in their game. Other locals were hanging at the bar, sitting and staring up at a television that was broadcasting some kind of twenty-four hour news station. Miles led Billy to a high-top table with backless stools and motioned for him to sit down.

"Stay here, I'll get you a beer," Miles said, giving a knowing smile. He ordered two Miller Lights on draft and brought them back to the table. He pushed one across the table to Billy, spilling some of the light amber liquid. "Here, cheers, Happy Birthday Billy." Miles held out his plastic cup to click against Billy's causing even more liquid to spill before taking a large swig. Miles hated light beer, but he wanted to start Billy on something mild.

Billy took a tentative sip and grimaced at the taste. "What is this?"

"Beer. Miller Light," Miles said, drinking idly and looking around the bar at the clientele. They were mostly older ranchers and some scruffier people that could have wandered in from the railroad tracks for all Miles knew. No one seemed to look at them twice, and the bartender appeared bored and unconcerned with asking for identification, even with Billy's baby face.

"It's...okay," Billy said, taking another sip. "I guess I could get used to it."

Time passed quickly as Miles continued to buy beers and talk with Billy. The young man was an avid reader owing to having no television. Luckily, he was into biographies and nonfiction books which were Miles' favorites. They had read quite a few in common and discussed their thoughts on some historical figures and favorite authors. Miles had to admit that his one fantasy guilty pleasure was A Song of Fire and Ice, which Billy had also read. Before long, the two were speaking animatedly about the virtues of the Starks versus the Baratheons and the merits of the R+L=J theory. Miles continued to refill their beers until he was starting to feel slightly tipsy, which was saying a lot considering his drinking habits and constitution usually made it impossible for him to get drunk from light beer.

"Okay so this is your fifth beer. How do you feel?" Miles asked, peering over the rim of his plastic cup to carefully examine the boy. Billy looked no worse for wear, save for an almost undetectable pinkness about his smooth cheeks.

"Great! I'm having a really nice time," Billy said, smiling. Miles was perplexed. Either this boy was the best actor he'd ever met, or he was not nearly as drunk as Miles had been his first time drinking when he had vomited after just three beers.

"You uh, want to try something different?" Miles asked, raising his eyebrows as he stared at his companion.

"Sure!" Billy said, walking up with Miles to the bar as the reporter eyed the liquor available with an analytic eye.

"Not exactly top shelf to choose from, but oh well," Miles waited until he had the middle-aged woman with bottle-blond hair's attention. "Hello again. It's my friend's birthday, he's twenty one. Want to try something different this time. Make us a couple of Jack and Cokes, and make one of those a double."

"Your birthday, well happy birthday," said the woman. Her voice sounded as though she had been smoking a carton of cigarettes every day of her adult life. "Here, on the house," she croaked out before pulling three shot glasses and the bottle of Jack Daniel's from behind the counter. She filled three shots and held one up for herself. Miles and Billy took the other two, clicked all three glasses together, and then the bartender and Miles threw theirs back without hesitation. Billy struggled to take his entire shot in one gulp. Miles clapped him on the back with a laugh. "Good show, Billy."

Once they had their new drinks, the pair returned to the table. Miles could feel himself growing more tipsy, and he became more guarded as Billy began to ask him questions with a level head as though none of the alcohol were affecting him.

"Do you have someone back in Denver?" Billy asked, sipping his drink.

"I have no one anywhere," Miles said, bitterly. He hated how emo he sounded, but he tended to turn to dark thoughts when he drank. "I have a friend. He means a lot to me, but he's in a relationship with someone else. So that's that."

"What about in the past? Did you have someone?" Billy asked.

"I'm not some kind of thirty-year-old virgin if that's what you're asking," Miles snapped, causing the boy to hold up his hands in mock surrender.

"No, I just meant like, a lover, or a boyfriend or whatever," Billy said, blushing intensely in the dim bar light. He began to carefully shred a wet drink napkin into tiny pieces.

"I'm thirty two years old, I've had quite a few relationships yeah. The longest one ended with him being committed to an institution for his own safety. And the most recent one ended before it ever began. I'm alone ,and not really by choice. So there," Miles said, gloomily.

"I'm sorry," Billy said, leaning slightly across the table. "I'm not really alone by choice either. No one much around and I can't leave the house much. I had a crush on the guy that used to deliver the medical supplies, but he was married with kids." Billy blushed at the admission and Miles chuckled before downing the rest of his drink and slouching on his stool.

"Look. Are you feeling the drink at all?" Miles asked, noticing how bright all the lights had grown in the last few minutes.

"I think so," Billy nodded.

"You feel kinda...giddy? Numb? Happy? Sick?" Miles asked.

"I feel great," Billy smiled.

Miles groaned in frustration. Binge drinking was a terrible practice, but part of him felt like it was a tradition on one's twenty-first birthday. He was not sure how this boy was not passed out under the table considering the amount of alcohol they had consumed.

"Look, I'm probably already over the limit of what I can handle and still drive you home. If we stay here we'll need to sleep over in my motel," Miles said, shaking his head.

"Great," said Billy. The quick response caused Miles to glance up in surprise. The boy agreed so quickly. Miles had a feeling he was being played all along. Billy probably drank every night while his grandfather was incapacitated and had developed a great tolerance to trick Miles into getting drunk and initiating something sexual. Well. Miles was nearing the point when that would not be a concern any longer.

"Fine," Miles agreed, walking to the bar and settling their tab. He returned to the high top and tapped on the table to get Billy's attention. "We're leaving."

Billy followed Miles into the parking lot. The reporter stopped at his jeep to retrieve the present he had given to Billy earlier that night. The pair walked down the sidewalk and left the red jeep parked at the bar. The motel was visible from the bar and they had a short walk in the freezing cold night air.

"I thought you wanted to drink more?" chattered Billy, long legs easily keeping up with Miles hurried strides.

"I do. It's unnatural to not get drunk on your twenty-first birthday," Miles said, holding the bottle close to his body under his leather jacket. It was too cold to delay too much and once they arrived back at the motel, Miles let Billy into the shabby room. The bed was unmade and dirty laundry piled up in the corner. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting company."

Miles sat down on the bed and motioned for Billy to take the chair. He pulled out the moonshine from his pocket and uncorked the strange recycled bottle. He sniffed the liquid and pulled away quickly, feeling like he had singed his nose hairs. "Ugh. Okay, I have no cups in this cheap ass room, so hope you don't mind sharing." Miles took a long swig from the bottle. He made a loud choking noise as he passed it to Billy.

The boy looked at the strange bottle then took a small sip. "Oh god," Billy said, almost dropping the bottle before Miles could grab it from his hand. "That tastes the way rubbing alcohol smells."

"It'll put some hair on your chest," Miles grinned, pushing the bottle back into Billy's hand. "Keep drinking it. It's your present after all."

The moonshine seemed to finally do the trick. Poor Billy was grimacing and gagging at the taste, but he managed to put back almost half the bottle during the short time they were sitting in the room and soon the boy's eyes were droopy behind their frames and a strange grin plastered to his face.

"How do you feel now anyways?" Miles asked, taking a swig of his bourbon he had started drinking to allow Billy to 'enjoy' the hooch.

"Good," Billy slurred, giggling childishly at the slip. "Sorry. You can probably drink a whole lot more before you get the giggles."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Miles asked, slamming the bourbon bottle on the cheap motel night stand. "If I was keeping up with you, I think I would be dead. I'm not sure you're human."

Billy laughed at that, almost spilling the moonshine except Miles reacted with just enough reflex to stop it from happening. The mishap only made the young man laugh harder.

"I'm going to feel really guilty when you are dying of a hangover in the morning," Miles said, putting the moonshine next to the bourbon—out of harm's way.

Billy made a loud pffffff at the sentiment. "Hangover. I won't have a hangover. I never have trouble recovering from anything. I'll be fine. Worry about yourself, old man," Billy snickered.

"Your luck may change, considering how much of that white whiskey you drank, kid," Miles said, grinning at Billy. The boy was sitting slouched back in the motel chair with his denim-covered legs spread wide, grinning at Miles. The reporter had strong feelings about taking advantage of drunk people, but damn if the boy hadn't tempting him in that moment.

"Trust me," Billy slurred with an over-exaggerated wink. "I'll be fine." Billy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees where he sat on the chair so he could be closer to Miles sitting on the bed. "Is this when you're gonna take advantage of me, Mister Upshur?" The way he slurred Miles' name and title made the reporter out loud.

"No," Miles said, though his tone was gentle. "I wouldn't take advantage of you, Billy. I don't make a habit of debauching virgins, or bedding people that can't consent."

"What if I consent," Billy said, sitting up straight and looking at Miles in the eyes.

"You can't," Miles grinned. "You're drunk."

"Not for long," slurred Billy, pouting so hard his glasses shifted on his face into a crooked angle across his flushed face.

"That's true. In the morning, if you're not vomiting, we'll see what we can do," Miles said, giving his most seductive smile.

"I'll be sober much sooner than that," Billy whispered, leaning in again. Miles paused when he caught something strange about Billy's face. His eyes behind their crooked frames seemed darker—much darker than the normal ocean blue. In fact, even his sclera seemed to be transformed into an inky black...

A sudden touch at Miles wrist had him jump up from the bed and move away from Billy so quickly he bumped into the night stand. The loud clank of glass bottles bumping together shattered the strange silence in the room. Billy was grinning at Miles, but everything was all wrong. The usually shy, cute boy was looking at Miles like something to eat and giving his best cat-got-the-cream smile that made Miles insides squirm.

The touch returned, but this time on the other arm. Miles turned quickly, and that time he saw something that shut his brain down completely for several heartbeats. A smoke like tendril coalesced near Miles, hovering in the air. It reached out again, lightly brushing against Miles' hand. The hazy appendage felt solid enough, and its touch was warm—alien, but not unpleasant. Miles had never felt anything like it.

"What the fuck," Miles said when he finally found his voice. A sane person would have run, but Miles' reporter-sense was on high alert, demanding that he find answers to the surreal scene happening in his cheap motel room.

"Sorry. The Walrider really, really likes you," Billy said, giving a drunken chuckle. The tendril continued to lightly touch along the skin of Miles hand and he stared in wide-eyed horror. Another sensation on his other arm caused him to jump and turn his attention to see another tendril there touching him and even more were hovering around in the air as though waiting for some opening to feel Miles. All of the strange smokey tentacles originated from Billy Hope.

"Wait...Project Walrider?" There was a pause as Miles pulled his arms close to his body to avoid touching the being again. "The Walrider. You...wait, you can't be the Walrider," Miles said, his impaired brain waking up under the stress of the new revelations. What had the old man said again? It was just a swarm of nanites?

"No, I'm me," laughed Billy. "Obviously. And the Walrider is the Walrider." One of the tendrils slipped down the front of Miles jeans causing the reporter to scramble back across the bed until he hit against the wall causing the tendril to retract.

"So are you controlling this right now?" Miles whined, panic creeping into his voice.

"Schfifty-Schfifty," Billy slurred, nodding as though that made perfect sense. The tendrils all assaulted Miles at once, though their touch was gentle and light, teasing his exposed flesh and making no moves towards anything more violent or suggestive. Miles' heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

"The Walrider was a success," Miles said, staring at the still grinning Billy.

The boy laughed and a tendril reached up to gently caress Miles' scruffy cheek. "What exactly is considered a success? Living with this day to day? There are many drawbacks," muttered Billy, sighing heavily. "No, it was not a success. It needed to be ended. Once the swarm had chosen a host, grandfather took me away before anyone could know."

"Your grandfather ended Project Walrider? Then he would know...he must have known Wernicke before he died," Miles pushed, impressed that his brain was even still working. Billy giggled again.

"Grandfather is Wernicke. I really thought you had figured that out," Billy mused. For a moment, Miles was lost in thought. He was so lost he did not even seem concerned about the fact that several tendrils were running through his hair, ruffling the brown locks into an even more disheveled appearance.

"Wernicke is alive? How is that fucking possible? He would have to be like, one hundred and twenty years old," Miles said, incredulity written on his face.

"One hundred and twenty four to be exact," Billy nodded.

"But Billy. That's fucking impossible," Miles argued.

"So is this," Billy said as a tendril wrapped around Miles' wrist and pulled the reporter away from the wall and back across the bed toward the chair where Billy was sitting and grinning at Miles. Another appendage pulled Miles head down gently until Billy could grab his scruffy cheeks with his real hands and kiss the reporter.

Miles pulled away quickly, shaking his head and causing Billy to frown sadly. "This is...this...this is...I should take you home," Miles said, quickly, looking for his keys. Billy was pleading as Miles stalked out the door with his keys, quickly jogging through the freezing midnight to get to his jeep. He drove back to the motel and opened the door. "Come on, we're going," Miles said, jerking his chin toward the jeep. He was relieved to see there were no more tentacles in the room, though the strange buzzing was back, infiltrating his brain.

"That noise, it's you?" Miles asked.

"It's the Walrider," Billy protested.

"Same difference. Get in the jeep," Miles ordered, sternly.

"But I thought you had had too much to drink?" Billy argued.

"I've never felt more sober in my entire fucking life," Miles said, getting into the jeep. Billy joined though he was reluctant, and he sat in the passenger seat sulking the entire length of the twenty minute drive. Miles pulled up to the house and neither man made any move.

"I'm sorry. I need some time to think about this. Not just the tentacles. I don't do virgins. My partners are usually much closer to my age. And my brain does not even seem to want to believe that this is real right now," Miles said.

"Please, Mister Upshur," Billy said, and Miles could hear the thickness in his voice. He looked and saw tears shining in Billy's blue eyes, illuminated by the dash-light of the jeep. Rather than shining bright, they looked almost dark gray, inky..."Don't do anything rash. If you tell Murkoff, they would hunt me down and hurt me and grandfather. I really do want to be with you. I think."

"You think? You are opening up with a secret like this because you think you might possibly want to be with me?" Miles was utterly confused. "You don't need to worry about me bringing Murkoff or Unsolved Mysteries down on you. I wouldn't..." Miles paused, "...I wouldn't do that." He wouldn't, right? At least, he believed that was the truth during that moment.

"The Walrider likes you. It's...it's the most intense feeling I have ever experienced in my life, and trust me, that is saying something. The feeling makes me like you. I don't know how much of it is the Walrider or me and...I want to know you better. Please. Why don't you come inside? I have twin beds, you can sleep here and we can talk in the morning and I can..."

Miles hummed as he considered the proposition. What were the chances that Billy would try to shove another tentacle down his pants if he did agree to the arrangement? He did not seem to be in any immediate danger, and Billy had definitely left him with more questions for grandfather. Miles was a breath away from accepting when his ringing phone lit up the darkness inside the jeep. Miles rushed to hit the accept button without reading the caller-ID. He was desperate for any break in the creepy, tense atmosphere inside his jeep.

"Upshur."

"Miles," came a broken voice, followed by a broken sniffle. "How soon can you come over?"

Waylon. Miles shook his head violently, clutching the phone so tightly to his face that his knuckles turned white. "Right now. I'm coming there right now. Stay where you are."

Miles ended the call and reached across Billy's lap to open the passenger side door. "Something's come up. Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back to Denver."

"What?" Billy practically sobbed. "Please. I'm so sorry Mister Upshur..."

"It's a personal emergency," Miles said, interrupting Billy's pitiful begging. "I wanted to stay—I was going to stay—but this is important. It could be life or death. I'm sorry. I will call you in the morning."

Billy looked heartbroken as he stepped out of the jeep and started a slow, painful walk up to the door. Miles cranked the window down quickly to shout at the boy, his breath fogging up in the frigid air. "It's nothing against you. You're a really, really great kid. This isn't goodbye. I will be back."

Billy gave a sad smile and walked into his house without another backwards glance. Miles turned the jeep around so fast he suspected two tires may have left the ground. It was early morning on a Wednesday so the roads would be clear. He could make it to Denver easily in two and a half hours—maybe two. Miles stopped at the motel only long enough to pay for an additional three days and grab his laptop. He picked up a coffee from the convenient store and drove straight to Denver.

He had a long, dark drive to think about everything that had happened. Shy Billy Hope controlled some kind of tentacle monster? Rudolf Wernicke was alive and Miles was one of two people that knew it. Murkoff had to know that the Walrider Project had not been a failure. There was so much to do, and so much to ask. But above all of those groundbreaking discoveries, Miles mostly thought of only one thing. Waylon.

Updating twice a week until further notice.