Chapter 19: Placebos

A roar came from the end of the hallway, like the noise at a football stadium when the home team scores a goal. Excitement. Adrenaline. Three figures were discernible in the dim lighting of the ward. A collection of crude clubs careened through the air as they sprinted, full speed, toward Waylon and Miles.

Dirty walls. Streaks of blood. At least, Miles hoped it was blood, and that thought made him question his sanity. Waylon was hobbling as best he could, but he was slowing them down. They turned a quick corner and Miles shoved Waylon through a door into a pitch dark room. "Hide-don't make a sound," he hissed as Waylon fell with a thud. "I'll distract them, I'll be back!" Miles stood in the middle of the hallway, and sprinted the second he saw the group rounding the corner.

Large portions of the hallway had no lighting at all. When Miles could not see, he forced his legs to carry him forward, unable to look through the camera and sprint efficiently. His hands made contact with the wall, alerting him to the dead end he had encountered, before his entire body smashed directly into the bricks. No. Miles pawed frantically at the wall. Door! A door. Miles threw the door open, and found himself inside some sort of holding cell with iron bars. One was open, and appeared empty. The other held a standing pool of blood, inches deep. Miles jumped into the dark, empty cell and put his wounded hands over his face to keep his labored breathing from giving him away.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours? It felt like forever that Miles was alone with the dark, the blood, and the rush of his pulse, echoing in the darkness. Three entered, and peered around the dark holding cells. Two turned around almost immediately, but one patient stayed, idly slapping a broken plank of wood against his open palm. He peered into the cell with the blood, and then into Miles' hiding place. Miles could see the man over his camera's night vision, his eyes shining like white beacons through the strange green coloring. Miles could make out the growths and scars on his face, the definition of each rib from his emaciated body, and the bloody shards of teeth that were visible as he sneered into the black cell.

Against all odds, the aggressive patient turned, and walked away. Miles turned the camera off and held his head in his hands for several moments, breathing-thinking. What next? He couldn't stay there. He didn't want to. He got up and began walking slowly back the way he had run. It had been a straight shot, and he had not detoured. He had to pause at one intersection because he spotted one of the pursuers, still wandering the halls. At last, Miles reached the familiar door he had flung open on his initial run. He pushed through quickly and held his camera up. He looked around the black room with the night-vision, frantically looking around for Waylon.

The room was large and dark, ringed with hospital beds the same as the first area. Miles stepped cautiously into the area and looked around at the obvious hiding places. Under beds. Dark corners. He even looked up where a grate was hanging leaving a vent partially accessible for someone small.

"Waylon?" Miles whispered into the vent, straining to hear any response. He did not have to wait long. A blood curdling scream echoed from nearby. Miles pushed through the dark room into a larger room, lit by light pouring in from a partially opened doorway. There were more beds in the second, cavernous room, and several of the patients to begin to pull against their restraints in agitation. The scream originated from the open door. Miles rushed to the entrance and peered through the crack. He recognized Waylon immediately, strapped down to a table. The figure looming over him was also familiar.

"If you scream like that again, I just might have to take your tongue first," said Trager.

Miles felt powerless as he watched through the doorway. Trager looked different than their previous meetings. That ridiculous, magnifying eyepiece he had worn now seemed to be part of his skull. The wound surrounding it was bloody and raw with uneven rows of stitches snaking over his face and head like tracks of black ants. Or maybe they were ants. It was difficult to tell from a distance. Even more confusing was what appeared to be an intravenous tube wrapping around his left arm, full of red liquid, but not attached to any other equipment. As morbidly fascinating as Trager's appearance was, Miles was focused only on Waylon, struggling on the table.

"You have nothing to worry about," Trager was saying to Waylon, "I'm a doctor. I'm interested in what's going on here, that's all, a little medical curiosity…." Trager wielded the large, scissor-like shears he had used to amputate Miles' fingers, and positioned them near Waylon's leg. Miles was about to jump into the room until he realized the shears were not positioned near Waylon's fingers, but along his pants instead. Trager used the shears to cut away one leg of Waylon's jeans, revealing the entire medical boot around Waylon's fractured ankle.

Trager set the shears down on a dirty stainless, steel tray, and picked up a tiny, metal hammer and a long, pointed object resembling a knitting needle. Trager stared down at the boot and clicked his tongue. "A terrible design really. What happened, anyway? Little accident?" Miles could hear Waylon sniveling and breathing hard all the way from across the room, but Waylon kept his mouth shut. "Eh, doesn't really matter. We'll get you fixed right up." Trager positioned the metallic needle against the side of the boot and carefully cracked the hammer down, driving the spike through the boot, into Waylon's flesh and bone.

"Come on, buddy! We're just getting started! Don't pass out on me!"

Miles could hear Trager talking, and Waylon screaming behind him, as he rushed back into the large room. He began searching for something—anything—to use against the mad doctor. Miles rifled through empty drawers, checked blood soaked trash cans, and attempted to pull apart a hospital bed. The noise aggravated some of the more conscious patients strapped to their respective beds.

"Miles," said one of the patients, causing Miles to freeze in place. He slowly turned and faced a darkened corner. He approached, cautiously, camcorder at the ready, and stared down at the mutilated body found there. A sheet was covering most of the man's torso, and part of his face was a mess of rough skin and uneven stitches. Still, Miles recognized him.

"David," he said, shaking his head. "What…what happened…"

"I finally saw enough. I tried…I threatened to go to the press," said David. His voice was weak. He struggled to keep his eyes open and focused on Miles. "They had me committed. My body rejected the therapy."

"Fuck, I'm sorry man, I'm…" Miles' speech was cut off by another bloodcurdling scream from behind him. "Look, that's my friend. Waylon. Remember him? Trager has him, and I need to get him free, do you know where there's a weapon, or something I could use?"

"You were always so supportive of Chris. I respected that," said David, through chapped, bloody lips. "Not many people, even blood relatives, were as dedicated to the patients as you were."

Miles frowned, torn between the desire to comfort his pained friend, or to rescue Waylon before more damage could be inflicted. "In the beginning, Chris was one of my favorites. I was pulling for him to be cured, especially after he survived the first round in the Engine. But they weren't satisfied. Never satisfied. They put him in until there was nothing left to salvage. I think he could take it because he was so tough—not just his physical strength, he had so much to motivate him to get better—he had you. I couldn't handle one single session. I don't even know how many Chris endured before…"

"Look, David, I'm going to help you. I'll get you out of here. But I need to help Waylon before something happens in there. Let me help you, let me get you off this table," said Miles. He lifted up the sheet and immediately dropped it. A hand flew to his mouth to keep himself from screaming. Under the sheet, David's body was opened with a giant Y-incision and some of his organs were on the outside of his body. Miles had no idea how he was even still alive. "Shit…"

"Chris has a new mission now. A mission to keep the Walrider from reaching the world," said David.

"That's a good mission, but it's misguided, it's based on a misunderstanding. The Walrider can be contained and controlled. Billy is a good host, he can…"

Another scream broke the silence and Miles started toward the door.

"Wait," said David, his voice sounding strained and painful. "I'll get his attention. Get ready to save your friend. Good luck. Get out of this place while you can. Chris is beyond your help now."

Miles knew it was the truth. He had known it for some time. But it still made him hurt, and angry, to hear it from someone else's lips. David was only trying to help. Miles crept toward the door. He watched as David used the last of his strength to struggle and thrash on his table, undoubtedly dislodging even more of his innards. Miles cringed at the thought and attempted to flatten himself against the wall. David's noise rose in intensity, so loud that Miles did not hear Trager approaching through the door until he was already advancing on David, his large shears back in his hands.

As soon as Trager was deep into the other room, Miles dashed through the doorway. He rushed to Waylon's side, and found him squeezing his eyes shut. Waylon's face was wet with sweat, tears, and snot. Miles immediately began undoing the restraints on his wrist and then the other leather straps holding him down to the table. As soon as Waylon was free, Miles pulled him off of the table and supported him as he threatened to collapse.

"Don't put pressure on the foot," said Miles, glancing down and noticing the three metal pins stuck through the boot and the blood dripping freely from the open toe of the device. "Hold onto me. We're getting out of here."

Miles could hear David's death howl from the room behind him. He rushed forward, Waylon doing his best to hop along while grunting from the pain of every movement. Miles pushed the back door open, and was met with a sign that pointed to the left with a symbol beside it representing an elevator. He felt renewed energy as he began trotting down the hall, holding his friend. "Elevator. Elevator! We've made it. We're okay."

"Speak for yourself," said Waylon, grunting in pain with every jarring step.

"Fuck!" came a scream from behind them. "I knew I should have removed that foot outright, you slippery fucker…" The massive lead should have been enough, but Trager proved unexpectedly spry for an old guy. Waylon's panic caused him to become even more unwieldy.

"There!" Miles said as he saw the elevator approaching, the light inside illuminating the dark room like a beam of light from heaven. Miles practically threw Waylon into the tiny, boxed off area and immediately began rifling through his pockets for the key. Waylon pulled himself toward the control panel and began smashing the 'door close' button again and again, growing increasingly frantic. Miles finally pulled out the key just as Trager reached the elevator and lunged inside, causing the key to slip out of Miles' sweaty, mangled hands. "FUCK."

Waylon was on the ground, pushing his hands around to feel for the key while simultaneously trying to avoid Miles and Trager's feet as they tussled. Trager had momentum, and he used it to push Miles until he was slowly backing into the elevator's wall, struggling to push back in his weakened state. Trager seemed unnaturally strong, or else Miles was unusually weak. Maybe both. The shears were making a slow forward movement, threatening to impale Miles through the stomach.

"Key!" said Waylon from the floor.

"Put it in the," said Miles, cut off by an elbow into his chin.

"Buddy! You came back! Did you miss me? Don't worry, you still have potential in this place, I'm not giving up on you!" said Trager. Miles was so focused on pushing Trager backwards that he did not realize Waylon had inserted the key and crawled until he was behind Trager's knees. Miles rallied his strength and gave a final push forward, causing Trager to bump into Waylon and fall on his ass. Miles stepped over Waylon and kicked Trager out of the way of the elevator door.

"Turn it! Now! Hurry!" said Miles. Trager was already fighting to regain his feet, the shears having fallen and skidded out of reach. Waylon turned the key and resumed his violent button mashing.

"Close close close" he chanted, like a mantra. The doors finally responded, but Trager pushed himself through the doors and managed to get his shoulders, head, and one arm through. He lashed out wildly at the two men inside, but his reach fell short. The elevator lurched and began to move downward, causing Trager to rise up until his body was stuck, keeping the elevator from moving. The sound of gears grinding to a halt, and electricity crackling, were drowned out by a sickening scream from Trager. When the elevator finally ground to a stop, Trager was staring, lifeless, having been crushed completely by the doors and the ceiling.

Waylon continued to hit the close door button again and again. "Please, come on, please work, oh God, no, please…"

"You know," said Miles as he backed up against the back wall of the elevator and slowly slid down into a seated position, "I read that those buttons do nothing. The close door buttons. They're put there as placebos to let people feel in control, when really the doors just close on a predetermined timer."

"Is that true?" asked Waylon, pausing his button mashing mission.

"It has to be. I read it on the Internet," said Miles. Waylon snorted and shook his head.

"Don't make me laugh. I can't laugh right now. If I laugh I'm going to cry," said Waylon, and his voice broke as though he would start to cry anyways. Miles sighed and kicked at the elevator door.

"Try pressing the fire button, maybe someone will come rescue us," suggested Miles.

"More like every patient in this place will know there's easy prey hanging out in this elevator," hissed Waylon. Miles just shook his head.

"So close. We'll never get down to Billy now. How's your leg?" asked Miles.

"It fucking hurts," said Waylon.

"Do you want me to try to do something about it? Pull those…pins…whatever, pull them out?"

"Don't touch it, no," said Waylon, his pale face somehow growing whiter. "I just, I need to get to a doctor. We need to get out."

"We're going to. I promise you, if we get out of this elevator, we get you to the nearest exit. I'll get you out of here," said Miles. Waylon nodded, and pulled his knees in, hugging them as he sat on the floor of the elevator. He pushed his head into his knees, but Miles could hear his soft whimpering.

"Come on now," said Miles, crawling until he could put an arm around Waylon's balled up figure. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you."

"I just can't believe…I can't believe this is real?" scoffed Waylon. "People experimenting on people, giving a man like that any kind of authority to operate on people. He seemed to really enjoy making me scream." Waylon leaned his head back against the back wall and sniffed loudly. "It hurt, but the fear was the worst. Not knowing when the next hit was coming. He…he was aiming the next one…up my nose…pointing upwards. I think he was going to lobotomize me…"

"Hey, it didn't happen, though," said Miles.

"Right," said Waylon, and Miles watched as a tiny stream of blood began dripping from Waylon's nose. Miles reached out and wiped the blood away, leaving a smear. "I never expected to see so much death and gore in person. I don't even like horror movies…"

"The patient that saved us back there was David, you might remember him, the orderly who helped me with Chris," said Miles. "He was dying in there. He probably got killed just to give us a distraction. I'm sorry you got hurt. Everyone here is hurting. We have to make this right. We have to get Billy. He can fix it. And I'll get you out."

Waylon gave a pitiful whine and leaned into Miles, burying his face against Miles' jacket. "This is so horrible. I feel responsible."

Miles gave a harsh bark that could have been a laugh if it weren't so full of scorn. "No, if I can't claim that, then you definitely can't. You didn't deserve any of this."

"You were visiting me. That's why you couldn't protect Billy," said Waylon, looking up with red rimmed eyes.

"Then blame Eddie for putting you in the hospital, not yourself," said Miles. "That guy is no good. I don't know why you put up with him treating you like that, because you're the sweetest, most selfless person I know, and you deserve the best-not that guy. You should have been with me."

"I'm sorry," said Waylon, roughly wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I'm sorry for everything. I shouldn't have rushed into a relationship with Eddie. I just wanted to get out of that stalemate of wanting to be with you, and getting nowhere. I dated him to make you jealous, because I'm a selfish child. And then I got in too deep, and everything went wrong. I still loved you. I mean, I love you still. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Miles sighed and reached out to squeeze Waylon's hand. "I love you, too."

"How like us that we need to be trapped by a corpse in an elevator to finally just talk it out," said Waylon with a sigh. "Why can't we do anything the way normal people do?"

"I don't know," said Miles, grinning despite everything. "After we're out of here, we can figure it all out. I'll talk to Billy, and you can meet him, and you will stay away from Eddie, and I'll publish this story, and get famous, and we can all just live happily ever after…"

Waylon shook his head. "Even if we don't get out of here, I'm glad at least I have you by my side."

"Hey, don't talk like…" Miles was silenced with a kiss. Waylon shifted and grunted as he moved his wounded leg. He put a hand on either side of Miles' face and kissed him, soft and persistent. Miles lips parted in surprise and instinct took over. Kissing Waylon felt like the most natural thing in the world. Even with everything going to hell around them, Miles felt content with Waylon by his side. It was different than the thrill and attraction he felt to Billy, and the Walrider. It was a comfortable warmth. Miles kissed back, nipping at Waylon's bottom lip, twisting his body so they could press closer together on the floor of the elevator.

Maybe it was because everything in the asylum was so horrible that any distraction was bliss, but the kiss felt better than anything in a long time. Miles could not resist the urge to put his hand on Waylon' side, or slip his tongue between welcoming lips. He did not want to stop stealing Waylon's every breath away. Because it was better than dealing with the terrible situation at hand. Because at least, while they were kissing, Waylon was not shaking in pain.

"At least we were together at the end," Waylon said when their lips parted for a moment. He pressed forward again to resume the kiss, but Miles put a hand on Waylon's chest and pushed him away.

"Wait, no. You're not sitting here giving up, this isn't over, this isn't the end, you're not saying goodbye to me right now," said Miles, staring into Waylon's eyes and seeing only sad defeat.

"If you say so," said Waylon, giving a sad smile, before closing his eyes and leaning back in.

"No, I am serious. Fuck that. We're getting out of here," said Miles, pushing Waylon back harder than intended and causing him to wince in pain as he toppled backwards onto his bleeding leg.

"Then what are we going to do?" asked Waylon. "Wait for the fire department to come pull us out of this broken elevator? You want to call for help? You think the first person that finds us will want to help us, or murder us? Maybe you could get Chris to come give us a hand, he seemed really keen on helping you earlier, assuming you were trying to have your head ripped off…"

A loud banging noise cut Waylon's tirade short. Both men scrambled to their feet and into a corner. Waylon leaned heavily on Miles for support. There was another series of bangs and the visible portion of Trager's corpse moved and changed before something was wedged in between the doors near his body. The instrument tore through Trager's dead flesh with a sickening squelch before the doors opened enough to drop the carcass to the ground with a dull thump. Miles put himself in front of Waylon and stared through the elevator door, meeting one wide, lidless eye.

"Praise the Walrider, you're alive!" said Gil.

Author's Note: There are 22 chapters. There are 2 chapters left, then the epilogue. I am updating as soon as they are finished, not withholding for any schedule, want to get it done, but done right :D