Chapter 8: Not Natural
Miles agreed to stay at Billy's house that night to assist with caring for Wernicke. Billy had definitely earned a full night of sleep without constant interruptions. Wernicke required assistance with changing, cleaning, and transferring to a remote controlled hospital bed. Miles felt exhausted just reading over the instructions. How could Billy do all of that every day?
Wernicke did not sleep much. When Miles was changing over an oxygen tank at one in the morning, Wernicke talked to him as clear as he would have during the day. If any of his wheezing conversations could be considered 'clear.'
"I would not choose to have an outsider knowing Billy's secret. But I suppose you have saved us both during this crisis," Wernicke conceded after Miles had finished up with his chores. Miles was yawning and feeling exhausted, but he stayed in the room for a moment longer, stretching his tired limbs.
"This may come as a surprise, but I actually want to help you guys," Miles said, sleepily.
"You have helped me," Wernicke breathed.
"No, I mean, I want to help you both, with Murkoff," Miles clarified.
"There is no helping with Murkoff. The Walrider Project, even if they bring it back, it requires expensive machinery they could not hope to create quickly. It requires research that was destroyed. The Project is dead," the old man said, face slack and lifeless per usual.
"I would say that Project Walrider is as dead as Rudolf Wernicke," Miles quipped. The sudden uptick of beeping on the monitors indicated Billy had not told his adopted grandfather about that particular leaked secret. "Yeah, I know about you. I don't fully understand how you're alive, though."
"Billy," Wernicke wheezed. "He...he won't let me die."
Miles stared in strange horror at the living corpse, stationary in its bed, hooked up to a collection of machines. "You...you mean you don't want to be alive?"
"Billy is an adult. He would be better off without me. I was the loose string. Murkoff cannot torture any secrets out of him. He would never allow himself to be taken. No, my job of raising him and protecting him from dissection is over. But Billy, he refuses to let me pass," Wernicke sighed the last part, drawing out the word in a dry hiss.
"How does he keep you alive?" Miles asked.
"The swarm. He can direct the machines, and they repair my cells. It is painful. Living...hurts. I'm over a hundred and twenty years old. Sitting in this room, in that chair, shackled to this Hell on Earth...I wish Billy would let me die," Wernicke said. His tone was the same monotone as always, but Miles felt he heard it in a sorrowful new way.
"Help me...and I will help you," Miles said. The only sound for several moments was the buzzing and beeping of machinery clicking away.
"How can I help you," wheezed Wernicke. "I do not have any influence at Murkoff anymore.
"How can I stop Project Walrider, once and for all? I don't want to wait for them to find another host, or to experiment unsuccessfully on a thousand patients before admitting defeat. I want them called out for their crimes against humanity. I want them exposed, and I want Murkoff to go down."
"How could an incapacitated old man help with such a feat?" Wernicke asked.
"I'm not sure," Miles sighed, pushing his hair away from his face, feeling the puckered skin around his puffy scar. "Maybe start by telling me something about Project Walrider? Like, how did Billy become the host?"
The beeping filled the silence of Wernicke's pause before he spoke again. "Failure after failure; lost cause after lost cause. The Morphogenic Engine claimed more and more lives. The scientists grew frustrated. By all of our calculations and hypotheses, a person needed so much exposure and so much predisposition to direct the nanites. No one succeeded, and we were running out of volunteers."
Miles found himself leaning forward, hanging on every word, feeling wide awake though he ached in strange ways.
"The poor child," Wernicke continued, "he was disturbed, and brought to Murkoff for treatment. His mother was concerned, of course, about the so called therapy. Watching her son hooked up to machines and forced to watch strange images...but he was an unprecedented case—to have a child so disturbed. I noticed early on that he was showing potential." The chirp and buzz of the life-support chair's machines filled the pauses in conversation. Miles could almost hear a type of musical rhythm to the sounds.
"His mother argued against the treatment. One particularly ambitious doctor, a Richard Trager, suggested that removing the mother would serve two purposes: to put an end to her constant complaints, as well as pushing the promising subject to potentially become disturbed enough to activate the Morphogenic Engine. I argued against the plan. I was overruled by my superiors at Murkoff..."
"What the hell kind of doctors and scientists are hiring hit-men and plotting murder?" Miles asked, disgust plain in his tone.
"Billy came to me," Wernicke said, ignoring Miles question. "I was allowed to question him frequently as part of the therapy. He told me that he had seen Trager's dreams, 'blood dreams' he called them. He knew that his mother was in danger. When the notice came that his mother had suffered from a heart attack—he saw through their deceptions. His time spent with the Morphogenic Engine therapy had awoken something no previous patient experienced."
"Psychic abilities. He mentioned them to me. Though he said nothing about reading my dreams..."
"I'm not sure he can control it completely," Wernicke said. "He could interact with the Walrider the way no one else could before. They hooked him into the machine while I was kept away. They knew I would not stand for the child suffering the pain of being inserted into the machine. It's...not pleasant. I only later saw the readings from that session. There was no bronchial accumulation as seen in all other subjects. The Morphogenic Activity was...well, he broke all of our previous records. I recognized the readings for what they were, Billy's lateral ascension...but it was already too late to avoid the tragedy."
"In the confusing aftermath that followed Billy's lateral ascension, I suspected that the child had become the host. I destroyed all proof of his success. When the cost projections went out, I increased every single line item until it was too much to be considered profitable by any measure. A few human lives are nothing to a corporation like Murkoff, but you touch their bottom line and finally you have their attention. The project was cut."
"I used my connections to fake my death and move safely with Billy. I was already old and losing mobility, and most assumed Billy had not survived the ascension. According to Murkoff, he was just another unethical experiment to be erased from the files. No one would want to know about a child being forced into such situations. And no one would believe that he had succeeded in becoming the host. I would have moved further, but my health was already going. Now I live here with Billy. I bought him this land, this house, and the cattle. I wanted him to have a life. But with the swarm inside, I don't know what kind of a life he can ever have."
"I don't know," Miles said, feeling as though he had been holding his breath through the entire story. "I think he's earned whatever kind of life he wants for himself. Some mad scientists decided to put a nanite monster inside of him-that doesn't make him a criminal."
"You call the Walrider a monster," Wernicke said, and Miles thought he could almost detect a hint of humor in the man's usually lifeless tone. "Truly, it is named after a German nightmare creature. But within the scientific community, we had to reminded several of my colleagues that the swarm was actually a scientific discovery and not, well, a divine being."
"People thought the Walrider was a god?" Miles asked, eyes narrowing.
"Those connected to the engine had dreams, visions. They heard voices. And the end desire was to create a sentient being able to give life and destroy it. What would you call a being like this?"
Miles did not know how to answer, and the silence in the dim room became stifling.
"If Murkoff has re-opened the project, and acquired an asylum," Wernicke finally wheezed, "you would need to get footage inside. I can guarantee their methods will not be humane. Forgotten mental patients would make the perfect guinea pigs, and there would be little backlash against using extreme methods. Murkoff knows what a money sink the research can become if drastic measures are not taken. I fear the current test subjects will not be given the same considerations Billy received, and calling them considerations is a stretch."
"My ex-boyfriend is in there," Miles said, turning his head to stare at the wall. Ex-boyfriend. Miles had to abandon Chris to his fate in the asylum, because that was somehow better than joining him there or leaping off the roof of an apartment building. "I have an inside source. An orderly. He can probably get me inside."
"That's your best chance," Wernicke wheezed. Miles yawned, feeling utterly exhausted.
"I'm going to get some rest. Thanks for the advice. I will see you in the morning," Miles said, walking across the house to Billy's room.
Miles gazed up at the ceiling from his twin bed. Billy was across the way, clean, tucked in, and sleeping soundly. No wonder Billy had not wanted to talk about becoming the host. Miles could not imagine performing such terrible experiments on someone so young. The scars he had seen on Billy in the shower must have come from this Morphgenic Engine or some other part of Murkoff's "therapy."
If Miles was able to find concrete proof that Murkoff was breaking laws, he would be able to publish an article and bring them down for good. Would he be able to do that without exposing Billy Hope? In the past, all of his stories had been about gaining awareness and assistance for the hurt and forgotten, but was it worth it to sacrifice the privacy and comfort of one person to save potentially hundreds? Even if that person was Billy?
Miles put his phone on the nightstand, surprised that there were still no missed calls. Maybe Waylon was actually respecting his request and giving him space. Or possibly his friend was pissed off and giving him the silent treatment. Miles deserved Waylon's anger and disgust. He shut off his phone for the evening. Thinking of Waylon seemed to remind him of exactly how sexually frustrated he was feeling after the earlier shower.
Billy snored loudly, drawing Miles' attention. He smiled at the sight, until a strange vision scared the smile off his face. The shadows in the dark bedroom seemed to be shifting. They seemed to be reaching. Wait, were they really…
Smooth ropes began caressing Miles' face. He was not even sure what to call the strange appendages. At times, they moved like tentacles or slithered and coiled like snakes. Other times they felt just like fingers attached to smooth hands. The night in the motel room, Miles had been tipsy and not worried about any physical harm from the manifestations, but Billy had been awake and directing the swarm. At least, Billy had admitted to it being about half him and half the Walrider. Miles glanced nervously at the other twin bed in the room and saw Billy sprawled out over the too-small bed with no covers and snoring loudly. Definitely asleep. So who was controlling the swarm?
One tentacle started at Miles leg and snaked its way up the loose plaid pants Miles had borrowed from Billy for the evening. His blood pressure began to rise. Perhaps he should run? Wake up Billy? But the boy had been so sick and tired. Miles pushed himself up on his elbows and stared down, watching the snake-like shape writhing under the plaid fabric, inching its way closer until...
Miles dropped back on the bed and bit his lip to keep from moaning. It has been so long since he had felt any touch that was not his own. The strange appendage was pleasantly warm and it felt neither slick nor rough. It felt good when it wrapped around Miles' waking cock and squeezed, dragging up and down slowly. Miles was rock hard after just one stroke.
Frightened gray eyes glanced over at the still sleeping Billy. Was he somehow directing the swarm in his sleep? Or was this some kind of independent desire of the Walrider? Or perhaps Billy's limited psychic abilities had sensed how horny and frustrated Miles was after his terrible crime against his friend in Denver and the earlier activities with Billy.
The air seemed to be growing hazy, the dark particles coalescing into a creature that was almost human. At the sight, Miles gave an undignified yelp and jumped back. He hit his head against the wall and the strange smoky being tilted its alien skull as it stared at Miles with a black face devoid of individual facial features. Was the Walrider looking at him?
"Billy?" Miles whispered to the strange creature. There was no answer, except for a dull humming sound that started in Miles' brain. A strange appendage coiled around Miles' shaft again and resumed its attentions. They were alternating between firm tugs and teasing tendrils stroking along Miles' thighs, balls, and then pressing further down until...
Miles back arched on the tiny bed as he felt his ass prodded by the foreign object. A thing—a tendril—was wiggling against his hole and Miles clenched his muscles against the invader. "I...we...you..." Miles had never felt more confused in his life. But a little bit of confusion could not stop his curiosity. The next time the tendril wormed against his opening Miles relaxed and brought his hand up over his mouth to keep from making a noise of surprise. It slid in easily due to its smooth texture and small girth and Miles' hips jerked up, thrusting into the cords manipulating his cock.
It definitely was not natural. This was the kind of twisted, disgusting relationship Miles deserved. Some dark hell creature hovering in the room, forcing Miles to pant and squirm as he was violated.
"Billy," Miles breathed, closing his eyes and dropping his thighs wide—submitting to the ministrations of the strange creature. The intrusion in his ass grew larger in girth but it was slow enough to not burn or stretch too much at one time. It had been over a year since Miles had been penetrated—since he had lost Chris. It felt nice to submit and let go, accepting whatever the strange creature had in mind. Did it even have a mind of its own?
The wriggling sensation inside of him was maddening, especially when the appendage expertly sought out the spot that had Miles gasping and bucking his hips against the intrusion. "Fuck yeah," he groaned softly. He could feel himself leaking out over the tentacles making their work feel even better than before. The feelers seemed to be inside of his brain, knowing exactly how he liked to be touched and honing in on all of his most sensitive spots. Two small tendrils had even fluttered underneath his night shirt to tease his nipples.
Miles opened his eyes after so long and jumped when he saw that the strange alien face hovering inches from his own. "Shit," he exclaimed, so loudly it caused Billy in the other bed to snort loudly and shift in his sleep. The curious face tilted again as though trying to understand Miles. "Billy?" There was no change when Miles asked by that name. "Walrider?" Still no response. His hand was shaking but he forced it to lift up and gently touched the surface of the manifestation. He wasn't sure if he should expect it to feel like something, or to diffuse like putting your hand through a cloud of smoke. There was a feeling to the creature, and it even seemed to lean into Miles touch, the buzzing in his head suddenly raising much louder until it felt like his entire body was vibrating.
Miles moved his hand to grab onto what could pass for a shoulder of the strange being and found it sturdy, and the apparition did not flinch, even when Miles' grip tightened tremendously. Feather light fingers of smoke were swirling around his dripping slit but Miles was unprepared when a tiny rope slid inside the wet opening causing him to yelp helplessly. The sudden change to fear seemed to confuse the specter, and the offending tendril was immediately removed. Miles was gasping and shuddering. It hadn't exactly felt bad but that was definitely not something he had ever considered before. He looked up at the wraith with a new curiosity. Was this some kind of strange experiment to this creature?
"Do you get something out of this? Does it feel good?" Miles asked his voice tremulous and struggling to stay quiet. He was not sure if the swarm even understood language, but he wanted to try. He got the distinct impression that this creature was not Billy Hope, but something else. The answer was a surge in the buzzing sound like the whoosh of static over the airways. The strange figure leaned forward and a long, extended tongue-like extension left what could be considered its mouth and forced its way into Miles' open mouth and to the back of his throat without pausing.
It was too late to argue before the pressure moving and teasing his insides in tandem with the slick movements up and down his cock brought Miles to the edge. The act of choking on the appendage only heightened his senses. His hips bucked up and his back arched as his climax hit and white light exploded behind his eyelids. There was so much come, and the creature milked every last drop. Before Miles could form any kind of coherent thought about this new sin, the creature had vanished back into the hazy darkness.
Miles attempted to clean up the mess without dirtying anything of Billy's. He glanced one more time at the other bed and saw no discernible change in his roommate's posture. Before he could over think the situation, Miles passed out from satisfaction and exhaustion.