Chapter 17: Promise

Miles sped down the highway. He couldn't stop replaying Billy's voice the last time he had heard it over the radio, followed shortly by Jeremy Blaire's warning. "If you come back, I will kill him—and you. If you release a report about my company, I will kill him. He was willing to gamble his life on you. Are you going to throw his away?"

But what kind of life was he saving for Billy? He wasn't worried that Murkoff would kill Billy. The host of the Walrider was much more valuable to them alive. He was worried that Murkoff would make Billy wish for death.

As he zoned out with his eyes on the road, Miles could almost see Billy that last morning. The way he had begged. The lazy morning when they felt like they had all the time in the world to indulge in one another. The memory brought back the blind anger toward Eddie Gluskin for putting Waylon in the hospital, and dragging Miles away from that promise. There was no way Murkoff could have captured Billy without his compliance. Miles cursed himself for being too fucking stupid to have realized that. He always considered himself intelligent-good at reading the situation. Yet he had been blind to Chris' deteriorating health until he was being forcibly institutionalized. And he had not known about Billy's false imprisonment until it was too late.

Pulling up to Billy's house, knowing he was not there, left Miles feeling uneasy. He rushed to the door, frowning that he did not have a key. He tried to consider a way to pick the lock. He checked around for fake rocks, and lifted the rug looking for a spare key. Eventually, he pulled away the screen door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. A shiver wracked his spine as he pictured Billy leaving in a blind frenzy in his decrepit pick-up truck. Racing to his doom.

Once inside, Miles rushed to Wernicke's room and was surprised to find the man sitting in his same chair. Miles realized that Billy may have only been gone for a few hours. Some of the lights were blinking red and an alarm was sounding. "Hey Rudy."

"Where is Billy?" asked Wernicke, wheezing away in his chair. "He rushed out of the house and said it was an emergency. What happened to Billy?"

"Murkoff," said Miles. "Murkoff happened to Billy. They used me, and I fucked up. He's there, right now. They seemed to be able to keep him contained. I'm not sure how to help him. They said if I come back they'll kill him—or me. I believe them." Miles held up his mangled hands to emphasize his statement. "Billy said he'd rather be dead than experience the Engine again. I saw patients, and the side-effects are terrifying. I have to get him out—one way or another."

"The lab at Mount Massive was deep underground," said Wernicke.

"I know," said Miles, sitting down, his shoulders hunching forward awkwardly. He felt the weariness of the past days threaten to crush him.

"You saw the Engine?" asked Wernicke, the faintest hint of awe in his wheezing voice.

"No. There was a long elevator ride to get down to the room where they held Billy. We were separated by some kind of thick, transparent divider. They sprayed him with, I don't know, some kind of gas when he walked in. And the doors were armored and automatic."

"Gott Im Himmel…The Walrider cannot escape such containment," said Wernicke.

"But Billy can," said Miles, sitting up straighter despite the pain in his body. "He's smart. He's fit. The Walrider can help, even if it can't go through walls or do whatever it is the Walrider does…"

"They will not give him a chance to find a way out. Billy is likely already undergoing their tests. If you did not see the Engine, it's possible they have not been able to get the Morphogenic Engine operational. That's the only hope for Billy. You need to get him out. Once he's outside their containment, the Walrider can take care of itself."

"They said they would kill him," said Miles.

"They will kill him either way," wheezed Wernicke. "I can tell you how to reach the laboratory—but you will have promise to do something for me in return."

"Anything," said Miles.

"The elevator is only accessible by those with the highest level of security," said Wernicke. "It's key operated. With the correct key, any elevator should be able to deposit you in the underground laboratory. You need only to get back inside of Mount Massive, use the key in an elevator, and free Billy—before they get him into the Engine."

"I remember the key mechanism in the elevator. But I'll never get close. Not without some kind of distraction. Not without someone else helping me," said Miles, frowning as he pulled out his cell phone. Without Billy around, he had perfect reception. He quickly dialed his contact at Mount Massive and waited while his phone rang. "Pick up, David. Pick up. Pickup-pickup-pickup…" Miles hung up and tried again. And again. "Shit," he hissed in frustration, stopping just short of chunking his cell phone across the room. "My one contact at Mount Massive isn't responding. I guess I'll need another plan."

"If, on the off chance they do have Billy hooked up to the Morphogenic Engine, and it is fully operational—you will need to override the system to free him. Please, do not waste more time. But now, you promised…" said Wernicke.

Miles was already standing up and preparing to leave. He stopped short and turned back around. "Yeah? What do you need? Should I change any tanks or dials before I go? Is there someone I can call to come and take care of you? Do you want to try and come with me?"

"If you could, just flip the switch right there, the one near the circular dial, the red switch," said Wernicke, his finger twitching slightly. Miles frowned and walked next to the massive life-support machine attached to Wernicke. Miles pointed to the only red switch.

"This one?"

"Ja," said Wernicke, his German accent becoming thicker. Miles shrugged and flipped the switch. He jumped in alarm when all of the different dials and buttons went dark and the machine slowly came to a stop.

"Shit! What did I do!" asked Miles, he flipped the switch again, and again, but nothing happened. He stared at Wernicke, watching what little color remained drain from his face.

"It is good," said Wernicke. His breathing more labored as the machine slowed to a complete stop. "I am…tired."

"Fuck," said Miles, he leaned down to grasp Wernicke's frail hand, still positioned near the chair's control. "Billy's going to kill me."

"It is the only way. He would never let me go," said Wernicke.

"That was a dirty trick, Rudy," said Miles, frowning at the man taking his last labored breaths.

"This is what I want," wheezed Wernicke. "Under the mattress. The corner nearest…the lamp. Billy doesn't need me anymore. He has you…"

Then we're all doomed, thought Miles. He put on a brave face and nodded at Wernicke as his head lolled back and milky eyes closed halfway. It was several long minutes before his chest finally stilled. Miles frowned. Perhaps he should have felt more uncomfortable in the presence of the recently deceased. Instead, he was reminded of the last days he had spent with his parents. Human remains were interesting. One moment, Rudolf Wernicke was the oldest man to ever life, and the next he was a bio-hazard.

Miles picked up the house phone and called for an ambulance to arrive and assist with the removal of the body. He had no intention of waiting around to answer uncomfortable questions about Max Mustermann.

He made one final stop in Wernicke's room before he left. He lifted up the mattress, near the pillow, in the corner closest to the table with a lamp. He thrust his hand between the mattress and the box springs, feeling around. He frowned as he bumped against something and pulled out a magazine. The writing was all in German, but Miles did not need a translator.

"You dirty bastard," he scoffed as he glanced at the cover sporting a young man in ass-less chaps. He flipped through quickly to confirm that there were, indeed, naked men throughout the magazine, most of them with thick carpets of hair on their chests and handlebar mustaches. "Not usually my type, but I guess, in a pinch…" Miles muttered to himself. Something fell from the pages, and clanged to the floor. Miles got on all fours and reached under the bed, pulling back a strange key. It was made of tarnished metal with a strange design that did not seem meant for a door. Miles had a feeling he knew exactly what it would unlock.

Miles left before the clean-up crew arrived. He took the dirty magazine. He had to make good time. He only had one other plan, and it was a long-shot.

—

"I wish you would at least stop by a hospital. Those fingers look terrible, doesn't it hurt to drive?"

"No time," said Miles, focused on the road, his foot pressing hard on the gas pedal of the tiny Ford.

"Slow down," hissed Waylon. "You drive your Jeep like you stole it, but that doesn't mean you should treat my baby like that."

"Time is a factor, Park," said Miles, his face locked in a grimace as he glared at the road. Making the horrible trip to Mount Massive for the second time in the last twenty-four hours.

"Then pull over and let me drive," said Waylon, crossing his arms. He wore a long sleeved olive shirt over a comfortable pair of jeans.

"No. You have a bum foot. You need to save your strength so you can drive the last of the way," said Miles.

"How do you know they won't recognize me? I used to go with you to all of your visits with Chris. I didn't go inside, but the gate guard might remember me," said Waylon.

"No one recognized me, how would they recognize you?" asked Miles. "Besides, even your own mother would have trouble recognizing you right now. Your face looks like an overripe tomato," said Miles.

Waylon sniffed and stared out the window. He reached out to turn on the radio and the small car was suddenly filled with obnoxious eighties dance music. Waylon wasted no time in belting out along with the music, further grating on Miles' nerves. The sing-a-long continued through several songs before Miles finally shut the music off, violently.

"Hey!" said Waylon, pouting. "It's my car. I can listen to what I want!"

"We are getting close. I need to stay focused. You need to focus! Are you…are you even taking this seriously?"

"Yes," said Waylon, sighing as he leaned against the window. "I'm scared. But I'll do it, because you asked me to."

"Let's hear your lines again," said Miles, eyes glued to the road as they got closer and closer to Mount Massive.

"Hi, my name is Max Mustermann, " said Waylon, his voice sounding flat and bored. "I need to speak about having my sister admitted to your establishment. As you can see, she's become even more violent lately to the point that I can no longer provide help myself. She suffers from terrible uh, PTSD, and delusions? And self harm? And other people harm?"

"Why are you saying it like a question, you need to sound more convincing," said Miles.

"Miles. My face is beat to hell and back. No one's going to question that I have some issues. I can keep their attention long enough for you to sneak in. Even if they're just staring at my grotesqueries," muttered Waylon. He had taken off the bandages for their journey. Miles found it very distracting to see his best friend looking like a red and purple mess with two white butterfly bandages holding together a large gash along his right cheekbone. The eye was barely able to open behind the swelling.

"Pisses me off," said Miles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until the leather squeaked loudly,

"Don't mess up my car. The doctors said it'll heal. It's not a big deal. Even the ankle is just a minor fracture. I just wear the boot for a while. I can walk without crutches, I'm just slower. Are you worried I would lose my boyish good looks? Would you not love me if I was ugly?" asked Waylon. Miles gave a long-suffering stare out of the corner of his eye, but Waylon only smiled and attempted to flutter his eyelashes.

"You're ridiculous," muttered Miles. "Alright, this is the last roadside stop before we hit the mountain. It's a straight shot. You're sure you're okay to drive?"

Waylon nodded as Miles pulled into the gas station parking lot. "Yeah. I got this."

Miles ran inside and bought a sad looking sandwich from a cold freezer. He was starving, and would need his strength. When he returned to the car, he laid out across the back seat and Waylon covered him with a few old, fleece blankets.

"You can't see me?" asked Miles.

"No. I can't see you. But it does look like I'm moving around some kind of tacky blanket collection," said Waylon.

"Whatever, just drive," said Miles. He sat under the blankets, snacking on his sandwich.

"Are you eating?" asked Waylon.

"Yeah," said Miles with his mouth full of sandwich. "Is that a problem?"

"I was hungry too! You didn't even offer to get me any food," said Waylon.

"I haven't had anything to eat since the hospital. I am starving and about to take on a multi-million dollar corporation to try to save my boyfriend from certain death. You really want to begrudge me a sandwich?"

"You're so dramatic," sighed Waylon. "What's this guy like, anyways?"

"Billy?" asked Miles, his voice softening as he said the name. "He's…really kind, and thoughtful. He spent his entire life caring for his infirmed, adopted grandfather."

Waylon snickered in the driver's seat. "What is a saint like that doing with an ass like you?"

"I have no idea," said Miles, grinning even though Waylon couldn't see. "He likes me, though-a lot. From the very first time we met."

"So were you with him when you came to visit Denver, and groped me in my sleep?" asked Waylon.

"Uhhh, that's…that's…I don't know actually," said Miles, shifting uncomfortably under his coverings. "I was not sure Billy and I were going to be together. I wasn't sure he was more than a source. And he's…he's young."

"How young?"

"Twenty-one," said Miles.

"Ah, that makes sense," said Waylon, exhaling through his nose in irritation.

"What makes sense?" asked Miles.

"You'd choose him over me now because he's young and hot," said Waylon.

"I didn't say he was hot," said Miles.

"Is he hot?"

"Yeah," said Miles. Waylon snorted. "But that's not why I want to save him. He's great. You'd like him. He does everything for everyone, and now he needs help. He's trying to sacrifice himself for me, and it's just, it's misguided. I don't deserve that kind of treatment. And even if I wasn't feeling so strongly about him, I wouldn't want my worst enemy to have to endure the 'treatment' they're subjecting him to." Miles paused for a moment before adding, "Wait, I take that back, I would subject Jeremy to that treatment all day long. Give him a taste of his own bullshit."

The car was curving and turning much more as they approached the peak of the mountain. Miles began to feel a little motion sick in the backseat under his blankets. He fidgeted with his cell phone, trying his Murkoff source again. The phone did not seem to have any signal.

"Who are you calling?" asked Waylon. "I heard you messing with your phone back there."

"Just a guy I knew up at Mount Massive. David. He's an orderly. We stayed in touch since the days I came to visit Chris. He was uneasy about what was going on there, offered to help me get information. He usually always answers my calls, but I can't reach him. Though I have no signal here. Almost like some kinda jammer rather than any sort of lack of cell towers.."

"You're always assuming the weirdest thing first. Don't you know that when you hear hooves, you're supposed to think horses, not zebras."

"Mount Massive is so fucked up, I hear hooves and think unicorns. I can't get into it with you right now, but trust me, there are really big, scary reasons we need to be on alert right now," said Miles.

"Alright, stay covered, I see the guard station," hissed Waylon.

The car slowed down as they passed the thick pine forest covering, and arrived at the gate house for Mount Massive. The sun was just setting, but the asylum was open twenty-four hours a day.

"Uhhh," said Waylon as his car came to a complete stop. Miles could hear Waylon moving around because of the squeak of the vinyl seats.

"Roll down the window," hissed Miles from under the blankets.

"I…there's no one at the guard station?" said Waylon.

"Well talk to whoever. Honk your horn?" suggested Miles. The Ford emitted a cutesy beep beep. "That's the horn? Really? What is this thing some kind of fucking clown car?"

"Would you shut up, no one's here. No one's coming," said Waylon.

"Look, there's always a guard in the station, all hours. There are others that patrol around the front of the building. Someone's heard you, just be patient," said Miles. But as the minutes pushed on he finally lost patience, and pulled the blankets off to look around. Waylon's eyes flew wide.

"You're blowing your cover, idiot!" said Waylon.

"There's no one here," said Miles.

"That's what I have been trying to tell you," hissed Waylon. Miles stared around and squinted, trying to see through the gates. A small fleet of strange military vehicles were parked on the lawn in front of the asylum.

"Those weren't here earlier," muttered Miles. He pushed the blankets to the floor, and took out his camcorder. He held it up and used it to zoom in, looking for any sign of life. As he panned over the outside of the building he saw a strange outline appear in one lighted window that abruptly went dark. Other than that, Waylon had been right—there was no sign of life. "I'm going in."

"No," said Waylon, shaking his head. He turned pleading eyes up at Miles, but the effect of that look was not as powerful with the one swollen eye and intense bruising.

"Come with me. I need to have a closer look around," said Miles. He opened the car door and stood next to the car. He checked his camera's battery level, shoved a dozen extras into his brown jacket pockets, and pulled out an additional camera.

"Jeez, have some batteries. Wait, you brought two cameras?" asked Waylon.

"Uh, I'd be pretty much the worst investigative journalist ever if I showed up to gather information on a story with one camera and no batteries," said Miles. Waylon considered it and then shrugged in agreement. "Here, you carry my extra. Might come in handy to have a backup, in case something happens to mine."

Waylon accepted the camera, and held it strangely, working with some buttons and testing different ways to hold it. Miles slammed the car door shut, and stalked toward the asylum.

Miles walked around the armored military vehicles on the lawn, recording them, and waiting for someone to come out and question them. But no one came. "Huh," he said out loud, causing Waylon to jump. "You okay, Park?"

"It's creepy here," said Waylon, wrapping his arms around himself while still holding the camera. "There's still lights on inside. Maybe it's some kind of drill? Or do you think it's a real emergency?"

"I wonder if all of this is because of Billy," said Miles, frowning. "Seems like overkill. When I left, he was completely contained by a simple chamber with automatic doors, and some kind of gaseous spray."

"Weird," said Waylon, holding up his own camera and messing with the settings. "What do we do?"

Miles walked up to the front door instead of answering. He tried to peer through the windows, but he could not see anything through the bars and dirty glass. Waylon crept up quietly behind him, frowning at the door. Miles pulled, and the doors opened without resistance. "I guess we're going inside."

"Should we be worried that a facility to house mental patients was unlocked and unguarded?" asked Waylon, his face locked in a worried frown.

"Don't be like that," said Miles, frowning over at Waylon. "People with mental health issues—they're more likely to be abused by others than to be abusers. Much of what we are shown of mental illness in the media is completely wrong. It paints them as dangerous to make people afraid. Really, all they need is our help. That's why I need to get this article out. The people in here? They're the victims, and they're being abused in nightmarish ways you can't hardly begin to believe. We are going to help Billy, but we will help everyone else, too. As many as we can."

Miles pulled the door open and walked inside first, with Waylon directly behind him. The area that was usually teeming with workers at computer consoles seemed completely evacuated. Miles walked to the doorway and listened, but all he could hear as the incessant beeping of several phones off the hook. He was suddenly distracted by the sound of Waylon retching. Miles rushed over to the main desk in the entrance way. There was no one sitting there, and he could not see Waylon over the tall desk.

"What the hell, Park?!" asked Miles before stopping dead in his traps. Behind the desk, on the ground, the remains of a security guard were sitting on the ground, a pile of entrails pooling around his disemboweled body. "Shit."

"What happened?! What…what…what is this," said Waylon, his voice coming out as a strangled hiss. Miles grabbed Waylon and pulled him in for a tight hug, walking while holding him to put some distance between them and the horrible sight.

"I have no idea," said Miles, though it was not exactly the truth. The sight of the guard's remains splattered behind the desk reminded him of Puddles. It reminded him of the guard earlier that day when Billy had discovered his injured hands. "Let's find someone. There's gotta be someone around here."

Miles threaded his fingers through Waylon's and clasped his hand tightly. They walked slowly because of Waylon's limp. Miles walked with confidence toward the main hallway in the visitor's area. Not only did he know the area from his many visits, but he also suspected that the problem was Billy and the Walrider. There was no way Billy would hurt him. Miles was sure. The main hallway was long and dark, illuminated only by a few emergency lights and red glowing exit signs. Miles stalked forward, but was pulled back by Waylon planting his feet.

"No. This is scary. I don't want to go down there," said Waylon.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," said Miles, squeezing Waylon's hand. "I can't explain it now, but Billy can protect us. We are going to be fine."

Their quiet conversation seemed to have alerted someone of their presence and Miles spotted a huge shadow looming at the end of the hallway, only vaguely outlined by the dim lighting. The sound of rattling chains came from the end of the hallway echoed in the quiet of the asylum, reminding Miles of the shackles that were used during his short stay.

"What's that," whispered Waylon, whimpering as he cowered closer to Miles in the dark hallway.

"Probably a patient. Don't worry. We can talk sense to them. I met some, they weren't violent…"

A low growl from the end of the hallway caused Waylon to whine at his side. Waylon held up his camera as though watching the scene through the viewfinder made it less real. Miles squinted his eyes as the shadow got closer. He braced himself to run in the opposite direction to avoid a confrontation in a small area when he heard it.

"Little pig…" the gravely voice seemed rougher than Miles remembered, but even after the year he had been without hearing it, he would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Let's go," hissed Waylon, tugging frantically at Miles' hand. He pulled his hand away from his friend and turned to take a couple of steps toward the new arrival.

"Chris?"