Chapter 16: Stain

Each dirt covered hallway seemed darker than the last. There was no conversation from the orderly as Miles was pushed through hallways and into an elevator to arrive in a large room filled with cells. Miles tried to stay conscious and make notes about his surroundings so he could escape if he got the chance, but the pain from his hands was distracting and every time he caught a glimpse of his bone protruding from his bleeding skin he felt cold panic grip his lungs. They finally came to a halt in a large area, open for two stories in the middle, completely surrounded with cell doors.

The orderly had to talk to a guard who produced a key and allowed him into a room that had white padding on all of the walls and little by way of furniture. Miles was struggling to ask the guard and orderly where he was and what was happening, but any time he tried to speak he felt sure he was about to get sick again, even gagging violently a couple of times. He was dumped out of the chair onto the ground without a thought. Miles managed to pull himself up into a sitting position on the ground with his back against the padded wall. It was quiet in the room. Too quiet. The padding was likely designed to act as a sound barrier against unruly patients.

Miles groaned as he stared at his fingers. The room, despite being white, seemed terribly grimy and unsanitary. Miles stared at the door's one tiny window. He wanted to look out, but the effort required to pull himself to his feet seemed out of his reach at that moment. He looked for something to bind his bleeding hands, but the bed was a plastic mattress with no other coverings. "Fuck," screamed Miles in futility. He jumped so hard he almost fell over when his outburst was met with a scared whine and strange scuttling sounds.

Miles fought to calm his breathing. He felt sure he would hyperventilate after the terrible scare. He slowly leaned his body until he could look under the bed and see all the way to the wall. He flinched again when he saw there was someone else in the room with him.

"Shit," said Miles, the quick tensing from the scares causing his phantom fingers to throb as his body strained broken tendons. "Sorry, I didn't see you there," said Miles. He made no other moves and the figure under the bed scurried as though attempting to form their body into an even tighter ball. "I'm a good guy. I'm not going to hurt you."

"They're in my blood," came a muffled response from the man under the bed. Miles made no movement and remained silent unsure how to answer. "They're in my blood, and they wanna get out…"

"Okay, what's in your blood?" Asked Miles.

"You've got to help me," said the patient, whining loudly and scrambling once again to push his body even further under the bed. There was nowhere else for him to hide.

After a while, the whimpering and whispering became background noise as Miles sat with his head against the wall. He kept his knees up, trying to elevate his hands to stop the bleeding. He tried desperately to consider what had happened to Billy. Where were they keeping him? Was he close by? Miles was glad he had talked to Waylon on the drive down. Waylon knew he was going to Mount Massive. Surely he would alert the authorities if his friend disappeared. Someone would come for him. But how long? And what was happening to Billy while Miles was imprisoned.

The wait became difficult. Miles felt bone weary, but the cell remained brightly lit. Blinding white seared behind his eyelids when he closed them. He was so tired that he must have finally dozed because he woke up to the sound of the door being opened. A security officer and an orderly walked into the cell.

"Bout fucking time," said Miles, but the orderly merely shoved past him, almost knocking him onto his side. "Hey! What about me? Where's Billy?"

The orderly ignored Miles and instead reached under the bed and fought against Miles' roommate. "Come on now. It's time for your therapy."

"No no no nonononono," the other man chanted. Miles finally got a clear view of his roommate. He was a man with a shaved head wearing only loose fitting pants. His body was so emaciated that every bone and tendon was visible. His mouth was missing several teeth as he gnashed and begged and pulled against the orderly with a strength no one that malnourished should possess. After the fighting patient was removed, another was shoved into the room before the door was shut and locked.

Miles pushed away from the newcomer. The man was hunched over and from behind half of his head seemed to be comprised of a giant tumorous growth that flared pink and angry from his skull. When he turned around, Miles saw that the growth continued across half of his face, lifting up his mouth into a lipless sneer. The one remaining eye stared lidless and twitching.

"Hey. You're not like the others. You're like me, right? You still know what's real?"

"Yeah," said Miles, struggling to get upright and wincing as his bone made contact with the dirty wall. He saw that he had left a bloody hand print behind. "Miles Upshur. I'd shake your hand but…" The patient stared down at Miles' hand and then extended his own which Miles noticed for the first time. It ended in a growth that had morphed his right hand into a disfigured club. "Ah, right, okay, never mind."

"Gil," said the patient, giving a nod of his misshapen head.

"Hey Gil. Any idea where we are right now?" asked Miles.

"This is the holding cells. Where they put the non-violents. We stay here when we're not attending therapy or talking with the doctors," said Gil.

"So that's it, therapy, doctors, and the cell? What about like, group areas, showers, recreation, time in the yard…"

"Oh no. There is only the therapy where we are strapped into the Engine and made to watch projections for hours on end."

"That sounds horrifying…"

"Indeed," said Gil, though it was difficult to determine any emotions considering he had one twitching eye and not much by way of facial muscles left. "What happened to your face?"

"What happened to yours?" Gil retorted, before laughing awkwardly. "Yeah. Once you've had enough therapy, you graduate to the Engine. It's not pleasant. I never want to do it again. But the good news is, I probably won't have to. The growths mean my body rejected the injections and they turned to cancerous growths."

"You're right, that is good news…"

"It's much better than being put into the Engine again," said Gil.

"Yeah but if those are cancerous growths, you could die," said Miles.

"It's much better than being put into the Engine again," Gil repeated.

There was a silence that stretched and Gil made his way into the tiny cell. "You mind if I use this bed?"

"Go nuts," said Miles, returning to his spot on the floor and grunting as he put pressure on his mutilated fingers.

"How long have you been in here?" asked Miles as Gil laid down on the pitiful bed.

"Oh, hard to say. A little while though," said Gil. "You?"

"I just got here. Do you know anyone named Chris Walker?" asked Miles.

"W..Walker? Chris Walker? Yeah. I know him, everyone knows him," said Gil, craning his neck up to stare at Miles. "Why would you ask about Walker?"

"I know him. Well, knew him before he came here. Is he…do you think he's having the same therapy as you?" asked Miles.

"Walker is way beyond what I was able to withstand. He's been in the Engine several times from what I understand. But it's growing more and more difficult to get him to cooperate. He tends to rip your head off if you don't do things exactly his way," said Gil.

Miles chuckled. "Yeah, he's military, you know? He always wants stuff his way. He had a temper even when we dated. Though he was always very kind to me."

"I think you may have misunderstood. He literally rips your head off."

Miles looked at Gil out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he was not as sane as he seemed if he thought a man could perform such a feat. "Yeah, well, the Chris I knew was not like that."

"You were friends?"

"Lovers. Partners," said Miles staring at the white padded ground. "He was big into physical activity. Never met a sport he didn't dominate. Complete opposite of me. Forced me into a kickball league of all things…but he made it fun. He made everything fun. Those years we were together were just, filled with, travel and fun, and sports, and laughing, and…"

"You're sure this is the same Chris Walker? It is a common name…"

Miles chuckled. It was normal that Chris' military buddies would laugh when Miles described the way Chris behaved off base. He was intimidating and huge, but when they were alone together he was an attentive and caring boyfriend. "I miss him so much. Do you ever see him? You think I might see him while I'm here?"

"You should hope not," said Gil.

Miles wanted to initiate more conversation but the door opened again. A security guard entered and walked straight for Miles. He grabbed Miles mangled hand and squeezed, causing Miles to howl with new pain. The guard used the pain to maneuver him until his face was against the padded wall. He held Miles there while tight restraints, more like shackles than handcuffs, were put on his wrists, keeping his hands behind his back. Miles had little choice but to follow the orderly as he was led out of the large open area and down another maze of hallways.

"Are you taking me to Billy?" No answer. "Are we anywhere near Chris Walker's cell?" Still nothing. "Jeremy Blaire is a pencil dick and whatever he's paying you is not worth what is going on here, man, open your eyes!" His pleas fell on deaf ears.

Miles thought he recognize a faded picture, but when he saw the same picture hanging in a completely different hallway he gave up. Murkoff knew their business, and they were the best at what they did. Miles thought that, if they weren't in the business of human misery, Murkoff could have solved the global climate problem. Project Walrider was alive and happening. Miles had been right. It was obnoxious being right all the time—especially when it seemed to do him no good.

They exited an elevator and walked down a hallway that seemed familiar. There was clean carpet, newly painted walls, much better light fixtures, and doors with name plaques. The orderly knocked and waited politely.

"Enter."

The orderly opened the door and the security officer pushed Miles inside. Jeremy Blaire sat on the other side of a fine mahogany desk with Richard Trager leaning against a wood-paneled wall beside him. Miles was roughly led to a nice leather chair on wheels and pushed down into the chair.

"Rude," Miles snapped at the security officer. "Where's Billy?" Miles attempted to find a comfortable way to sit with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Ugh," said Jeremy, putting his fingers to his temples. "Hung over. Way too many celebratory martinis last night." Trager chuckled behind him. "Not in the mood for you bullshit today Mr. Upshur. Gag him."

The last phrase was a command to the security guard who wasted no time forcing a thick leather strap into Miles mouth and securing it behind his head. Miles did not make it easy, but he could not fight too hard. He kept his chin up, but inside he was in a cold panic.

"So much better," sighed Jeremy Blaire, turning to the phone on his desk—previously Miles' cell. "Seems your boyfriend isn't answering your texts. Pity, I was under the impression you two were close." Miles tried to make sense of the sentence. Jeremy was texting Billy? But Billy was in the asylum somewhere, and he did not even own a cellphone due to the swarm's interference making them obsolete. Jeremy's fingers tapped on the screen and then he set the phone on the desk. Miles could hear it ringing on speaker.

"Hello?" Miles' heart flew into his throat. Billy. He stared in confusion, gnawing at the strap in his mouth.

"Hello. I'm calling on behalf of Miles Upshur. I need to speak with Billy."

"Speaking," said Billy. "Did something happen? Is Miles alright?"

"I'm sorry, that is classified information," said Jeremy. "I'm calling because Mr. Upshur has been committed to our facility. I believe you may have heard of it: Mount Massive Asylum."

An eerie silence came from the phone. It lasted long enough that Jeremy frowned down at the phone. "Are you with Murkoff?" Billy asked.

Jeremy chuckled. "As far as you're concerned, I am Murkoff Incarnate. You see, your friend was snooping around and led us straight to something we had not realized we had misplaced. It seems one of our little science projects wandered off some years ago while we assumed it was dead. I know who you are, Billy Hope. I also know what you are." Jeremy shifted his posture in his executive leather chair allowing his meaning to be fully absorbed before continuing. "I can help you. The research has grown in leaps and bounds since your departure. The Walrider Project was only in its infancy when you experienced your lateral ascension. Today, we have the tools, the research, the technology—we can help you. We can give you complete control over the swarm. Or remove it completely if you chose. We have the knowledge and the equipment here at Mount Massive."

At Mount Massive—where Miles was, and Billy was not. Had he been in a different position he could have kicked himself for being such a fucking idiot. Of all the times to be wrong. But the fact that Billy was not being held at the asylum brought him some amount of peace.

There was no reply from Billy except for heavy breathing echoing through the speaker of the phone.

"I'm afraid it is of utmost importance that we meet," Jeremy continued. "We needed to ensure that you would come. That's why Mr. Upshur is here. Say hello, won't you?" Jeremy jerked his chin at someone behind Miles and he felt the latch behind his head undone and the gag became loose.

"BILLY-Stay-away. Do not come. DO NOT COME. BILLY RUN AWAY. GET OUT OF TH…" Miles continued to scream against the leather gag as it was violently replaced.

"Miles!" cried Billy over the phone. "Oh god Miles, are you alright? Miles?"

Miles attempted to squirm out of the security officer's grip but backup had already arrived and Miles was quickly back to square one.

"I apologize for that, it appears that Mr. Upshur does not have anything useful to say at this moment," said Jeremy.

"Don't you dare hurt him," said Billy, his voice had gone cold and low over the line. "No therapy. No tests. Do not lay a hand on him."

"Well, that depends on you now, Mr. Hope," said Jeremy. "Come to Mount Massive. Allow us to run our routine examination, and we'll make sure that Mr. Upshur is released—free from harm. If you refuse this offer thought...I'm afraid we will need to continue on our mission to find another host, and…what's that Mr. Upshur? Did you just volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program? Brave man…"

"I'll come. But I won't stay unless Miles is released. No tests, not even a fingerprint, until Miles is driving home," said Billy.

"This offer expires soon. Mr. Upshur will be thrown into general population tonight if you fail to follow through," said Jeremy.

"Get a room ready for me. I'll be seeing you soon," said Billy.

Beep.

Miles fought all the way back to the padded cell was he was thrown back inside. His body felt exhausted from the fight and the lack of sleep and food. By a small favor, Gil was still his cellmate and he helped Miles onto the bare bed before he finally passed out. There was no way to tell with the constant buzzing halogen lighting how many hours had passed. Had he slept for five minutes or five hours? Gil was sitting nearby humming to himself.

Miles sat up, working his jaw where it felt sore from the earlier gag. He held his head in his mangled hands and cursed himself. They never had Billy. Jeremy Blaire had used him to trap Billy, and it had worked. He could feel himself slipping into despair. If he lost Billy, what then? How could he even forgive himself if he lost two boyfriends to Mount Massive's machine of horrors? He would publish the story. He had to. But what would it cost him? The obnoxiously upbeat humming finally began to grate on Miles' nerves.

"Would you…I'm sorry Gil, but can you fucking cut it out?"

"I apologize," said Gil, and instead of humming he began swaying his head and smiling. At least it was silent.

"How can you even manage to stay upbeat at a time like this?"

"Can't you hear it?" asked Gil, cocking his deformed head and staring with his one unblinking eye at Miles. "Listen. You just have to listen. Our Lord the Walrider is coming." Gil then erupted in a string of giggles much too childish and happy. Miles jumped when the door opened and he found himself once again shackled and forced down strange hallways. This time he was forced into an elevator. The orderly produced a strange looking key and inserted into a special slot beneath the other buttons. They rode the elevator down for what felt like an eternity. When they emerged, Miles was led into a pristine bathroom and an orderly used washcloths to clean his bleeding hands and dirty face. He was even given some simple bandages for his fingers.

"Hope is in the building," came a crackled voice over the handheld radio on a security guard's belt.

Billy. Miles' stomach fluttered so violently he thought he would be sick. Never mind that he hadn't eaten since the night he went to Denver. Hunger was the least of his worries, but it left him feeling very weak. He was not sure he would be ready for the fight that was definitely coming. Miles thought of Puddles, and the scientists present when Billy first ascended. It seemed like too good of a death for Jeremy Blaire.

After the bathroom, Miles was led to a tiny room with one wall that was a thick glass window. Two security officers stayed in the room with Miles. They seemed tense. Did they know what they were facing?

After several minutes, Miles' feet were getting sore and he felt lightheaded. He somehow managed to snap to attention with the doors in the room visible through the large window opened. Through the doors walked two security guards flanking Billy. He was wearing one of his usual flannel shirts, a dark blue plaid pattern, over regular jeans. His wavy hair looked clean and fluffy. Miles was not sure he'd ever seen a more spectacular sight. A strange greenish gas flooded the room through strange dispensers in the corners of the tiny room, but it cleared quickly and Miles noticed no other changes.

Billy mouthed something on the other side of the wall and walked to the window. Miles moved to join him there, and a security guard cleared his throat. "The yellow button. Allows you to talk." Someone must have told Billy the same thing because his voice came through a speaker into Miles' side of the glass.

"Miles, are you okay?" asked Billy over the speaker. Miles thought he might finally cry just from hearing that voice. The doors opened and more guards filled Billy's room, flanking Jeremy Blaire. The same spray of green fumes repeated. Jeremy stood back, out of the way, but he glared at Miles through the window.

Miles pressed the button and stared at Billy. "Billy. Get out of here. They're not going to help you. No one's going to help you. You need to leave. Now."

"I won't leave you, Miles," said Billy, holding down the button. He pressed his hand against the window and when he did, Miles could see the nanites swarming. They were growing thicker, becoming more visible, filling the chamber with a kind of haze and Billy frowned in frustration. "We can't reach you?" Billy seemed confounded that anything could contain a nanite.

Miles felt dread growing in his stomach. Billy had planned to get to him using the swarm, but Murkoff had put a wrench in that plan with these strange chambers they were forced into.

"Don't worry about me. Get out. Whatever way you came in, go out. Use whatever means necessary," said Miles, keeping his eyes glued to Billy's through the glass. "Do you understand?"

Billy shook his head and pressed his hand on the glass again. Miles shook his head, smiling sadly as he pressed his own mangled hand against the glass. Billy stared at the injury and Miles watched as the whites of his eyes seemed to slowly fill up with black ink. The Walrider was quick to pick up a guard and slam him against the back of the strange containment chamber. The nanites pulled and the man ripped apart, entrails spilling onto the ground and causing all of the guards to jump and scream. Miles could not hear anything, but he could only imagine the horror in that small room. Only Jeremy Blaire seemed unshaken. He held up a radio to his lips and Miles heard his voice in Miles' room over another radio: "Proceed with Plan B."

Miles was still watching the mayhem and staring at Billy's sad eyes when he was cracked in the side of the head with a baton. Miles stumbled to his knees and struggled to get back to his feet. He felt the side of his head and his hand came away sticky and warm. The guard then slid the club around his throat and held onto it, pulling tight enough that Miles struggled to swallow around the intrusion, though he could still breathe.

"We know what you are, Mr. Hope," came Jeremy's voice over the hand held radio still transmitting to Miles' side. "If you decide to go against our agreement, Mr. Upshur dies. The world won't miss him. And you can't get out of this room without my authorization. If you don't follow the rules-you both die here.

Miles locked eyes with Billy and nodded as best he could. "Go," he attempted to say, the words getting choked off by the baton. "Leave." He tried to point toward the door with his right hand before remembering he lost that finger. He pointed with his left instead.

"Fine," came Billy's tense voice. "You stick with the agreement, too. Get Miles out of here. Don't hurt him," said Billy. "Once he's out of here, and safe, I'll go into the chamber. But one more thing…" The Walrider seemed to materialize out of nowhere behind Jeremy, its tendrils roping around his neck and pulling tighter. "If I don't see him leaving here safe, you're the first to die."

Jeremy held the radio up to his mouth, still nonplussed. "Please show Mr. Upshur to the door."

"NOOO," Miles howled, as he was carried between two security guards. He tried to fight but he was so weak it was pointless. "Billy, kill them, now, kill them. Save yourself. Do not trust them. No one's going to help you, Billy please…"

"If I hear any distress from that radio, you die, idiot," said one of the guards dragging Miles back to the elevator. Before he knew where he was, he was being carried down a long corridor toward an exit sign.

"Billy's going to die if he stays," said Miles. His fight became less and less violent as the last of his strength evaporated. The guards led him to his red Jeep and put him behind the wheel. Then Miles heard the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked and he stopped and held his hands up weakly.

"Alright Billy," came Jeremy's voice over the radio. "Submit, or Mr. Upshur's about to become a stain."

Miles briefly wondered if he couldn't fight the one guard, but the gun was trained directly between his eyes. Still, he could try? If he wasn't so goddamn weak…

There was static and silence for a moment before Miles heard Billy's voice over the same monitor. "Drive away Miles. Goodbye. I love you."