Chapter 15: Time is Money

The road was a blur as the Jeep tore down the highway. Bushes, trees, buildings, fences—everything melded into one smear across Miles' peripheral vision. The only thing that remained constant was the ominous form of Mount Massive, looming in the distance, growing closer so slowly it was almost undetectable. He had to get there.

Miles dialed Billy's number again, and again. No answering machine or voicemail ever picked up. There was no end to the ringing. No answer on the other end. The continuous noise was eerie and unnerving. He considered driving to Billy's house to check on Wernicke first, but that would only waste more time. He eventually gave up on calling and instead dedicated himself to getting to Mount Massive as soon as possible.

A route so familiar he had driven it many times in his dreams—and nightmares. A drive that once meant he was one step closer to visiting the man he loved. A few hours closer to finding out how much further his boyfriend's health had declined since their last meeting. Each trek out to the mountain brought a new fear as he slowly watched his lover deteriorate into someone new and disturbing. Miles had to watch the first man he ever loved fade away. It had been over a year since Miles had made the familiar drive, but he sped toward the asylum this time with a new purpose—to save Billy.

His cell phone rang in his pocket and Miles managed to pick it up and accept the call without taking his eyes off of the road.

"Upshur."

"Miles, what the HELL," said Waylon through the phone. "I'm getting out of the hospital right now and they said you were in county jail. I called the jail and they said some guy in a black suit paid your bail. What the hell is going on? Where are you?"

"I'm in the car, driving to Mount Massive," said Miles. The statement was followed by a frustrated scream on the other end of the phone that made him wince.

"For fuck's sake, Miles. You show up here, you attack my boyfriend, and then you run away back to see your ex?! Weren't you just claiming yesterday that you were completely over him, that he wasn't a factor anymore?"

Miles scoffed out loud into the phone clutched by his face, casting a disgusted look at the gadget as though it had personally said the words. "Even though I've moved on, Chris is a part of who I am. He was the first man who ever loved me. The first man who made me feel safe and content. We lived together for years. I watched him falling apart and I did everything I could…"

"I wasn't trying to say it as though you didn't care about him…" said Waylon.

"I do care about him. I still do," interrupted Miles. "I will probably always love him. Moving on isn't the same thing as forgetting. Even the parts that I want to forget will stick with me. I tried, Park…"

"I know you did, I wasn't saying-"

"I tried so hard to be there for him," said Miles. 'I kept him away from his family who wanted to throw him in an institute. I went to every appointment. I filled every prescription. I watched over him constantly. It wasn't enough."

"What happened to him wasn't your fault…"

"Whatever. You're pissed that I couldn't get over it fast enough to be with you. I'm pissed about it too. But you can't walk into your home and find the sink full of blood splatters and smears across the mirror, and then just wash it from your mind. I can't forget following a trail of blood to find my boyfriend peeling the skin off of his forehead. I can't un-know what it sounds like to hear someone breathing out of the bloody slits in his face where his nostrils used to be after he'd hacked off his own nose with a straight razor."

"Jesus, Miles, okay, I know it was horrible, but he's in custody under his parents' wishes, there's nothing you can do. It's not worth driving yourself insane just to get in there to see him," said Waylon.

"It's different this time. I have to go to Mount Massive," said Miles.

"There's a restraining order against you from going to that place! Are you insane?! You always do this. One thing goes bad, and you just go nuclear, destroying everything until you're right back up on a ledge somewhere. What if I'm not there to drag you back this time?"

"Calm down, Park. I'm not on some suicide mission. Jeremy Blaire. That's who bailed me out. They have Billy."

"Who has…wha?"

"Billy Hope, the guy I was staying with in Leadville, the one that I am…my new boyfriend…he's at Mount Massive. Jer was bailing me out just to rub it in my face. I'm on my way to get him back. They have no idea what they're messing with."

"They do have an idea, Miles. They've beaten you a dozen times in the past. Restraining order? Remember?"

"No, not me. Billy. If I can get to him, I know we can get him out of there," said Miles.

"Okay, ignoring that weird statement, how the fuck do you even think that can happen? They will arrest you on sight. Come back to Denver. We can go together. Maybe I will have better luck! I could claim to be a relative or something."

"You'd do that for me?"

"There's very little I wouldn't do for you Miles." Seconds passed where the hum of the engine and the rush of the wind were the only sounds. "I love you."

"Mutual. I'm still going to Mount Massive. I'll call you tomorrow."

Beep.

The mountain was closer after he hung up. Soon he was winding up recognizable pathways and passing familiar landmarks until he pulled up to the security checkpoint required to enter the asylum.

"Name," asked the bored, middle-aged security guard.

"Ferguson," said Miles, glaring a challenge at the guard. The man lifted his cap, revealing a balding head, as he looked over a list with pursed lips. He ran his finger over the paper and stopped near the bottom of the page.

"Ah. Mr. Miles Upshur, most likely claiming to be one Turd Ferguson. They're expecting you," said the guard. Moments later he hit a button that raised the guard rail. "Enjoy your stay."

Miles parked his red Jeep and jumped out of the car. He stalked toward the entrance with his head down before pushing open both of the double doors and storming into the main entryway. A large horseshoe shaped desk dominated the main area in front of the elevator. A few employees in the work area directly connected to the main office stopped to glance at the new arrival. Miles had not even gotten to the secretary's desk when security guards began to approach.

"Excuse me, sir, we're going to have to ask you-"

"Jeremy Blaire. Where the fuck is he? He told me, personally, to come here. He has something of mine that I intend to take back," Miles said, keeping his fists clenched at his sides.

"Yes, Mr. Blaire gave clear instructions that you were to be taken back immediately," said one of the uniformed officers.

"Okay then," Miles said, jerking his arm when he felt someone taking his elbow, "What the hell?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Upshur but it's standard protocol to have an escort, and Mr. Blaire indicated you were a considerable risk. Apparently, you have a restraining order against coming to Mount Massive. We were instructed not to call the police—unless you make it necessary."

"Fine," muttered Miles. "Take me straight to Blaire."

Miles had visited many times to see Chris and he was intimately familiar with the visiting areas. The decor was modest and modern, with a real focus on everything being clean, the scent of bleach never far. There was little in the way of decoration apart from some paintings you might see in a cheap hotel and a few dying potted plants. Miles followed the security guard as he led through several familiar corridors until they came to an elevator.

Not wanting to let on that he was out of his comfort area, Miles kept his stance relaxed as they waited in the elevator. The hum of the motors pulling them up one floor, two floors—or was it more? It was unclear when the chime dinged and the doors opened. Miles followed the guard out of the elevator and down an unfamiliar hallway.

It was immediately apparent that this area of the asylum had not been updated as well as some others. Miles knew that the building had originated from the sixties, but all of the visiting areas and the main office were so modern it rarely occurred to him that there may be areas of the asylum that still resembled an outdated health care facility from the Dark Ages. As he followed the guard, the walls became more battered and the floors were aged tile instead of new carpet. There were visible vents and cobwebs in the corner. Miles became concerned about whether this was even an active area of Mount Massive. He filed his concerns away as he followed through a maze of dilapidated corridors until the guard pushed a yellowing door and held it open for Miles.

Miles walked into the room slowly, taking in the dingy tiled walls, the dirty shop sink, and the stark lack of furniture. A stained examination table dominated the middle of the room, and an antique wheelchair was seated off to the side. "The doctor has been alerted that you are here and will be in any moment. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Upshur?"

"Where's Billy?" asked Miles, glaring at the security guard. There was no recognition in the man's eyes.

"I'm sorry. I don't know anything about patients. I only know I was instructed to bring you to this examination room. Doctor Trager, the head doctor of the asylum, is going to meet with you."

"Perfect," said Miles, fingers forming a steeple in front of him as he leveled a glare at the flunky guard. The name sounded familiar and he wracked his brain for where he may have heard it before. Was it listed on some of the files he had observed from Wernicke's boxes?

"Feel free to have a seat, the doctor will be in shortly," said the guard, gesturing toward the aged wheelchair before exiting through the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Miles stared around the room, unimpressed with the old equipment. Why had Blaire insisted that he be brought to this room? It made sense to bring him to a lesser used portion of the hospital if he wished to discuss things where the public could not hear. Miles assumed Billy's residency was top secret. He snooped around, looking inside of the cabinets and finding nothing but dust and cobwebs. He tried opening a few drawers but found nothing but dirty rags, stained the same color as old rust. Was that blood? Miles was unsure as he closed them and paced the dirty tile floor.

After several minutes alone in the dirty room, the main door opened and a man that Miles had never seen entered the room. He was as tall as Miles but much older, with long gray hair dangling to his shoulders. He wore a strange headpiece that had a magnifying glass over his left eye, causing it to look unnaturally large through the convex lens of the glasses.

"Where's Jeremy?" Miles demanded, glaring.

"Hey buddy, nice to meet you. I need you to just, calm down," said Dr. Trager, walking casually into the room. "Jer knows you're here. He's a busy man, hard to get a hold of considering all of these new discoveries. Old Rick's gonna make sure you get the answers to all of your questions, in due time."

"Then tell me where Billy is—I came here for him," said Miles.

"Weeeell, sorry. I'm just here for the initial examination," said Rick. He was wearing business clothes under a doctor's coat and a butcher's apron around his waist. Miles had no idea what that meant. Rick dug around in the pockets of the doctor's coat until he found a tiny flip pad and a pen. "Okay, I just have a few questions for you."

"I have a question for you first. Chris Walker. You know him?" asked Miles.

"Okay let me see here, are you experiencing any fevers? Shakes?" asked Trager.

"What?" asked Miles, standing in front of the wheelchair and staring across the stained examination table. "No, I'm completely healthy. Now where's Jeremy?"

"Have you experienced any visions?" asked Trager.

"Visions? Is this a fucking joke?" asked Miles.

"Visions like, have you seen any smoke creatures? Ghosts? Phantoms? Wraiths? Monsters?" asked Trager as though he were listing off the points on a checklist.

"No," said Miles through clenched teeth.

"Any premature ejaculation?" asked Rick. Miles was still spluttering to find an answer when Trager continued. "Oh, touchy subject. Sorry about that buddy. Juuuust doing my job." Nothing was going the way Miles had anticipated. He started to stand up from the wheelchair to face off against the strange doctor when the door to the examination room opened and in walked Jeremy Blaire, in all of his black suited glory.

"Mr. Upshur. Always a pleasure. How's it going, Rick?"

"We were just discussing Mr. Upshur's problems with lasting in the bedroom," said Trager.

"I wish I could say that was surprising," said Jeremy. Miles attempted to interject into the conversation but Rick and Jeremy were staring only at one another and talking as though they were over drinks at a corporate function rather than in a filthy examination room of a dilapidated asylum. "We're going to need to make room, how do you feel about getting some surgeries underway today?"

"I'm sure I could free up my schedule. It's about time we started trimming the fat on this project as it were. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, we could cut the population by ten, maybe twenty percent just by the end of the week. Just need to stick with this schedule. And I gotta tell you, I am enjoying my work."

Jeremy laughed and clapped Rick on the shoulder. "If you're able to make those numbers, we'll have to go out, my treat, and we'll make the martinis as dirty as you like them…."

"Hello? What the actual fuck?" Miles stared incredulously between the two different men in utter confusion. "Where's Billy? If you've hurt him..."

"Ah, sorry about that Mr. Upshur. You know how we get when we talk shop," said Jeremy giving a knowing grin over to Trager. Jeremy socked Miles in his already sore nose. The unexpected move knocked him backwards into the wheelchair that squeaked under his weight.

"Dammit," said Miles, fumbling to bring one hand on his bleeding nose and the other grasping around to try to steady himself on the old contraption. He barely registered that his arm had been restrained before the other was forcibly pulled away from his face and belted into place on the other side. Miles pulled at both of his arms but found the restraints formidable. "What the hell is going on? You can't do this to me. My friends know I'm here."

"Nice try, you don't have any friends," said Jeremy, leaning bored against the dirty examination table in the room. Trager wiggled his long, gnarled fingers in front of Miles and he noticed the doctor's long, unkempt fingernails for the first time. He recoiled in horror as the doctor began to pat him down, first his jacket pockets, followed by a pat down of his body through his thin shirt, and finally groping along his thighs.

"Get off of me, you fucking pervert," hissed Miles.

"Quite a specimen," said Rick earning a snicker from Jeremy. Hands continued to squeeze and feel along his pants pockets. "Ah," Trager said as he managed to wedge his hands beneath Miles' ass and dig into his back pockets. He pulled out Miles' phone and moved his strange headpiece into place as he examined the gadget. "Nice phone, buddy. One of these new models. Touch ID-ooh, fancy."

"Take it, I can get another," said Miles, glaring defiantly.

Trager handed the phone over to Jeremy who swiped his finger and frowned. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell us your code, Mr. Upshur?" asked Jeremy. He began typing in a few numbers and frowned at each outcome before finally giving a hmph and handing the phone back to Trager.

"You're that concerned about who I'm sexting? For the last time, I am not sending you a dick pic, Jer," said Miles. The two men laughed at his joke, which only made him more angry.

"Whoo, you said he was funny," said Trager, grinning at Jeremy.

"Not as funny as he thinks he is, but entertaining none the less," said Jeremy, walking until he was staring directly down at Miles.

"Fuck you," spat Miles. Jeremy was undeterred. He pursed his lips and squinted his eyes as though deep in thought.

"Don't worry," said Trager with a warm chuckle. He opened up one of the bottom cabinets and pulled out what resembled a rusty butcher's knife. "I have ways of getting this guy to talk."

"Oh don't waste your time, Rick," said Jeremy with a shake of his head. "I.T. can have this cracked within the hour I'm sure."

Trager paused in the act of pulling out a huge pair of bone cutters from the same drawer and frowned at Jeremy. "You're no fun anymore Jer. Time is money. And I have a much quicker solution." Trager held the bone cutters in his hand and snipped them a couple times, as though testing their sharpness. Trager gave a shrug and approached Miles' left side. He pulled back Miles' left ring finger as far as it would go and Miles gave a sharp cry that soon turned into a shocking scream when the bone cutters removed the digit below the first knuckle.

"Fuck," howled Miles, his body breaking out in sweat. He had been prepared for outrageous threats and intimidation-not outright torture. The room was spinning. He was going to be sick. He stared down at his hand, blood pushing out in a stream from where his ring finger had been. Miles sobbed at the sight, sure he was going to pass out.

"Ah jeez," said Trager, though it sounded to Miles as though he were speaking underwater. "I guess he did not program in all of his fingers. Everyone does the pointer."

Before Miles could make sense of the strange, garbled words, his right index finger was similarly pulled back and then cut roughly. He screamed and thrashed about against his restraints.

"Aha, there we go. Ooh, nice wallpaper, who's the blond?"asked Trager, holding Miles' amputated ring finger that he had used on the finger recognition of Miles' phone to unlock it. "Told 'ya."

"Yeah, yeah, very efficient of you. Thanks for your assistance," said Jeremy begrudgingly. Miles vomited noisily over his lap. He had not eaten much in the past twenty four hours, but he soaked himself with bile. His entire body was shaking in the chair and he felt like he must be going into shock. The floor seemed to rock as though he had been teleported to the deck of a ship in the midst of a storm. A rough slap to his face snapped Miles back to reality in an explosion of pain that had him biting his tongue and crying out again.

"Stay with me, buddy. Don't want you to miss the best part," said Trager, walking behind the wheelchair and starting to push Miles toward the door.

"Monsters, fucking abuse...help, someone," Miles shouted as Jeremy opened the door and held it open while Trager pushed the wheelchair out into the dim hallway. Miles glanced back and forth between his mangled hands, still restrained on the wheelchair's arms. His left ring finger was only a tiny stub, and he could see bloody bone shards extending from the remains of his right pointer.

"Hey there," Trager said, flagging down a waiting orderly in light green scrubs. "You can take our friend down to the temporary holding cell. I doubt he'll be staying long." The orderly nodded and took Trager's place behind the chair, pushing Miles down toward an even darker hallway.

"Where's Billy? Why are you doing this?" Miles tried to crane his neck around to see the doctor.

"Good luck!" called Trager as Miles was pushed away.