Chapter 20: Chosen One

In a matter of minutes, Gil and another patient had the door wrenched open, and they pulled Trager's useless carcass out of the way. Miles frowned when he saw the condition of Gil's accomplice. The patient had one leg completely transformed into a mess of tumors. Gil and Miles had to share Waylon's weight as they walked, dragging him between them. Waylon leaned considerably closer to Miles to avoid getting too close to Gil's cancerous face.

"Father Martin can help," said Gil. "He has supplies, and men. We can get assistance—medicine for your friend, a wheelchair perhaps…"

"We don't have time for a social visit," said Miles. "This fiasco of a short cut is losing us precious time. The longer this goes on, the more chance something horrible is happening to Bil…the Host. The Walrider will not be pleased."

"Of course, of course," Gil said, nodding along with Miles' demands. "His Will be done."

It was useless to continue arguing his point. Miles walked in silence, attempting to minimize Waylon's discomfort. After a few minutes, they arrived outside a room where two patients were standing out front, carrying candles, of all things. Miles read the plaque beside the double doors denoting it as the asylum's chapel. Gil and the other patient were immediately welcomed by the guards who opened both doors wide, allowing their motley group to enter.

The chapel was sparsely decorated, but it did have the mandatory pews and an altar. A makeshift cross had been erected from what appeared to be pieces of destroyed plywood furniture. Miles found it odd that people claiming to worship a seemingly demonic entity would erect a Christian symbol. Several patients filled the pews—some watching, some bowing in prayer, and others rocking or gibbering to themselves. Miles and Gil carried Waylon down the center aisle until they met a weathered old man with quivering jowls and wide, glassy eyes. He was wearing what appeared to be a straight-jacket somehow dyed black and fashioned to resemble a priest's vestments.

"Father Martin, this is the one I was telling you about, the Walrider's Chosen One, the Apostle, and his friend. They seek passage below to embrace our Lord," said Gil. He spoke with reverence and conviction, as though pronouncing a holy quest.

"Look. I know the host. The Walrider chose me for a purpose. I need to get down there. Immediately. No more delays," said Miles. If the patients were going to talk like this was some epic quest movie, Miles would play along. Anything to get down to help Billy.

"Of course, of course, my son," said Father Martin, speaking in a high, lofty tone. "You were sent here for a reason. It is true. Your friend is in pain. Allow me to make him more comfortable?" The fake priest produced a huge hypodermic needle that looked more like a horror movie prop than an actual medical instrument.

"No, you're not touching him with that," said Miles, starting to move between the priest and Waylon.

"It is a sedative. We've been injecting it to into our injured faithful, those so afflicted with pain they cannot focus on our true purpose. It would numb the area of affliction, but, unfortunately, it is temporary," said Father Martin. "I offer this only as a gift. If your friend does not desire…"

"Give me the drugs," said Waylon. Miles was conflicted, but Waylon's forehead was clammy with cold sweat, the old injuries layered with new bruises, and his injured ankle was obviously bothering him terribly. Miles nodded first at Waylon and then at Father Martin. The injection caused Waylon to hiss in pain, but, as soon as the needle was withdrawn, the lines on his face already began to soften. "It's working," he said, lowering himself carefully into a wheelchair another patient had produced.

"Thank you. I'll make sure the Walrider knows of your devotion," said Miles. "Once the host has been set free, I'll come back for all of you. Now, do you know of an elevator that we could use?"

"The main elevator is clear," said Father Martin.

"No, Chris was there, keeping everyone inside," said Miles.

"The Soldier has moved to other territories. We will show you to the elevator, and assist you with getting to the Walrider, but there is one more thing you need to witness," said Father Martin.

"We've wasted enough time already," said Miles, feeling his anger rising. "We're leaving." He turned to storm out of the room and almost ran directly into two very tall, almost identical, naked sentinels. "Uh…" Maintain eye contact, thought Miles. Don't look at their dicks. Don't look at their dicks. Dammit. Miles looked at their dicks.

Waylon settled into a wheelchair and gave a long sigh of relief. "We can spare a minute, but make it quick," he said, filling in for Miles' sudden loss of words.

"Yes, yes, of course," said Father Martin, nodding so quickly his fleshy chin threatened to wobble off of his head. He walked down the center aisle toward the altar and a few candle toting followers huddled in closer.

"This is stupid," said Miles, bending over to speak into Waylon's ear without being overheard. It was difficult because Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dong were still hovering near. "We need to go—now. If that elevator is clear, we should walk down there, we should…" Miles slowly stopped talking as he noticed Waylon's eyes going wide as saucers. "What?" Waylon shook his head, unable to form a verbal response.

Miles finally turned around in time to see Father Martin fully restrained on the ramshackle cross, and several of the followers pouring some type of liquid all over his body and the broken boards. The chapel reeked like a roadside truck stop, leading Miles to the conclusion that the liquid was accelerant.

"No! Father, the Walrider doesn't want this, this isn't something that needs to happen, step away with those candles fellas! Hey!" Miles' words were lost on the fanatic crowd.

"You have a calling, Apostle," said Father Martin from atop his cross, sagging against the restraints. "Go to Him, and leave this place—spread His message to the masses."

"Okay but listen, Billy is just a guy, you're confused, you are doing this for the wrong reasons. The Walrider is just a tool, it's not a person, it's not a god or a monster or anything, it's science, it's…"

Miles continued talking, no longer able to hear himself over the high pitched screaming originating from behind the altar. The believers had lit Father Martin on fire, and his body was writhing like a wisp of paper caught in a flame. Miles went silent and watched with morbid curiosity. The man sure screamed longer than he would have thought possible. It was obviously painful, but he never begged for mercy or water or help. Only screamed as though trying to summon the Devil himself. When he finally hung limp, his cries silenced, Miles wondered what had killed him. Had he passed out from shock until the flames cooked his insides? Suffocated by smoke inhalation? Had he managed to swallow fire as the flames licked ever higher, leaving his lungs smoldering like cigarette ashes? Miles was so absorbed with watching the carnage that he forgot about Waylon.

He turned in time to see Waylon staring straight ahead in his wheelchair. His eyes were open and the flames were reflected there, sharp specks of orange over his green irises. Waylon's expression was blank; his eyes looked dead. Miles turned his back to the grotesque display and shook Waylon's shoulders, gently. "Hey. Park. Hey!"

It took a few moments before Waylon's eyes snapped to Miles' face. He met Miles' eyes and spoke in a calm tone. "I want to go home." Miles nodded.

"Okay, we've seen enough. Thanks," said Miles, shooting a glare at the naked sentinels. Gil was already behind Waylon's wheelchair, pushing it toward the exit. The guards and all other believers parted easily before them as Miles led Waylon and Gil back out of the chapel.

"This way to the Walrider," said Gil, his voice filled with unbridled joy. Apparently the sight of his religious leader burning to death had not affected his good mood. His deformed face was twisted into a childlike smile, and he actually giggled as he pushed the chair quickly through a myriad of hallways. Miles followed, relieved that they would finally reach their destination, but now the new worry of what exactly he would find in the lab settled into his stomach like a dinner of rocks. Gil led them toward the entrance way they had originally used to enter the asylum. He rushed toward the elevator, but Miles put his foot in front of the wheel and caused them to come to an abrupt stop. "Yes, Apostle?"

"Chris isn't here?" asked Miles.

"The Soldier moved on some time ago, you've been detained for quite a while now…"

"I'm aware, okay, so Chris isn't here. The car is right outside. Wheel Waylon out to his car. Make sure he gets in and drives away, safe," said Miles.

"No," said Waylon, turning an unnaturally calm face up toward Miles. "No. I stay. You don't know what you will face down there. My leg doesn't hurt so bad. If anything goes wrong, I'll get back in the elevator and leave to get help."

"You're sure? I mean, the Morphogenic Engine is down there. That's what turned all these patients into…well, it made them what they are today. You can walk away. Well, limp away. I want you to go. I want you safe. I need you…"

"Then let's go down to the lab," said Waylon. He turned to look back at Gil standing behind the wheelchair and gave a final nod. "Let's go."

Miles sighed, tempted to physically throw Waylon out of the asylum, but he did not want to injure him further. "You are waiting with the elevator."

The trio entered the elevator and used the same key as before. They listened as it clicked into place and the elevator began a lurching, downward motion. They descended what should have been several floors before there was a strange jolting stop, followed by the sensation of dropping—quickly. Falling, perhaps. "Shit," said Miles, gripping the sides of the elevator. Gil swayed uneasily, holding onto the jostling wheelchair with a smile on his face. Waylon had the same dead stare, seeming oblivious to the danger around him. Miles was shocked when the elevator decelerated, after what seemed an eternity, and came to a safe and complete stop. The doors opened with an anticlimactic ding.

The light that flooded the elevator was blinding after the relative darkness of the asylum. The walls were carved from the solid rock of the mountain, polished and uneven. Fluorescent bulbs shined down on them from the ceiling, reminding Miles of having a bright light shined in his face at the dentist's office. He actually missed the dark upstairs. At least then he had been able to hide. He felt exposed.

Miles led the way out of the elevator and waited for Gil and Waylon to catch up. "Where's the Engine?" asked Waylon, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Miles flinched at the sound and looked around, worried about the noise attracting some aggressive patients, or worse. When nothing happened, Miles relaxed slightly.

"I don't know," said Miles, keeping his voice just above a whisper to avoid the echo. "I'll go and check it out. You two want to stay here by the elevator? If there's any trouble in there, I'll run right back."

"No," said Waylon, standing up from the chair. The sedative had dulled his pain enough that he could put weight on the leg, though he grimaced with each step. Miles could see a trickle of thick, congealed blood dribbling from the holes in Waylon's medical boot.

"Feels like pins and needles, like my foot fell asleep," said Waylon.

"Pins and needles? Sure you don't want to rephrase that?" asked Miles. Waylon shrugged. Gil kept close behind the other two as they started walking, slowly, down the glowing hallway. There were rooms on either side of the corridor that reminded Miles of the chemistry lab at college. The only difference were the interspersed piles of human remains reduced to chunky puddles of blood and bile. "Billy's close."

"This is his work then?" asked Waylon, staring down at a murky puddle associated with a huge blast radius of blood splatter.

"Uh, yeah," said Miles, with a long sigh. "This is how the Walrider kills. I don't know the mechanics of it, but I saw Billy do it once out in the pasture, protecting his cows. I also watched the Walrider murder a guard the day Billy turned himself in."

"So your new boyfriend is a murderer?" asked Waylon, his voice not sounding as shocked as it should have, considering the question.

"No. I mean, not really? The dog was a mistake…"

"Dog?"

"Yeah, Puddles, that was a judgment error, and the guard was basically self defense…"

"And all the corpses down here? Judgment errors or self defense?" asked Waylon.

"Look, if you want to go back, take the elevator up and walk out the front door. Take Gil. I'm sorry. I know this is all my fault for bringing you here, and getting you hurt, and almost killed, but I am going into this Engine room, and I am bringing Billy home."

"And you're sure there's no chance he's going to do that to you? To me? To Gil?" asked Waylon. Miles paused, scrunching up his face as he thought.

"I hadn't considered it. Probably not. You know what, you stay back. Let me go and talk to him. Then we can all get out of here," said Miles. He began to stalk off down the hallway, alone, leaving Waylon staring blankly into some kind of office splattered with blood and brains. Gil was standing behind him, still holding the wheelchair though it was not being used. Miles huffed as he quickened his pace.

Waylon's disposition made Miles feel uneasy. He had never seen his friend so despondent and disturbed in their time together. Even when they had visited the asylum and heard bad news after bad news. Even when pulling Miles off of the roof, or picking him up from some gutter he had drank himself into. Waylon had never looked as hopeless as he did when Miles glanced behind him, one final time, before the hallway made a sharp turn. Around the bend, Miles was met with darkness.

It was jarring to go from such bright light into complete darkness—the kind of darkness you could only find in the middle of the earth with no electricity. The weight of the mountain suddenly seemed oppressive, settling on his shoulders. Miles pulled out his camcorder and held it up, using the night vision setting to make his way around crates and more splattered remains. He was growing used to the smell and sight of death. Desensitized. Surely, no amount of blood would ever bother him again for as long as he lived. He had waded through so much already in his short life. Miles was lost in thought when an alarm began blaring overhead and a red siren light began swirling around.

Miles spun, pointing the camera in all directions. He couldn't see anything except for more blackness. He stumbled into a row of barrels. When he finally held the camera back up, he saw something. It resembled smoke coming up front under the gap in a closed door, but soon coalesced into a more physical shape, eventually taking on a humanoid appearance that Miles recognized.

"Billy," said Miles, and the Walrider immediately flew to his side. The feeling of hands, limbs, tendrils, all manner of appendages, pushed through his hair. "Whoa whoa, careful," he said as a particularly enthusiastic stroke threatened to knock him to the dirty ground. "I missed you too, but damn…" Miles laughed as the petting continued. "I think I know how a puppy feels in the hand of an over enthusiastic toddler. Listen. I'm here to help. I'm getting you out of here. I came for you."

The Walrider nuzzled its head against Miles' neck and made a humming static noise Miles couldn't help comparing to a kitten's purr. Miles reached a hand around and pat the swarm on what would be its back if it had one. The gesture only seemed to encourage it, and Miles felt new appendages curling around his thighs, stroking down his chest, and even one tugging at the fly of his jeans. "Whoa, okay, bad timing, I need to get you out of here first…" But the Walrider remained willfully ignorant of Miles' complaints, caressing Miles as it pleased, ignoring any attempts to bat the tendrils away. "I'm serious…" Miles was interrupted when he began laughing uncontrollably. "Quit, dammit, that tickles…"

A shrill scream from the far end of the hallway echoed off the carved stone walls. Miles began to run, but the Walrider was faster. It took off down the hallway, gripping Miles' arms. When Miles finally gave up trying to run fast enough to stay upright, the Walrider carried him the rest of the way. They flew around a corner and were greeted with a horrible sight. The wheelchair was overturned, Waylon was on the ground, crawling away from Chris. Miles ex-boyfriend stood tall with his hands around Gil's throat as the man struggled in his lethal grip.

Chris' damage was worse than Miles had been able to ascertain in the dim lighting upstairs. The wounds on his chest seemed recent, still shiny and healing. His face was a mess of scabs and oozing scratches. Whatever the doctors at Mount Massive had done, it had not stopped Chris' self-harming compulsions in the least. If anything, it still looked like he was actively making himself worse. His mangled claws were tightening around Gil's malformed neck as they rounded the corner.

"No! Chris, drop him!" said Miles. Gil's one remaining eye looked ready to pop out of his skull as he stared past Miles—gazing at the Walrider.

"My…Lord…" Gil somehow managed to gurgle out, before his head was forced from his neck with a loud snap.

"Chris, please, don't you remember me? I want to help you. I only want to help you," said Miles, reaching out toward Chris even as he took two heavy steps toward Miles. "Please…"

Before Chris was within striking distance of Miles, the Walrider picked him up as easily as one might lift a wet towel. The swarm swung Chris' massive frame and then pulled him up toward a vent in the ceiling. The duct was covered by a mesh grate. The Walrider was able to dissipate and move through the grate as easily as if it was nothing at all. Chris could not. It was like sending his entire body through a wood chipper in a matter of seconds. Blood and meaty chunks showered down on Miles as he froze.

For a minute, Miles could have sworn he was back in the car, upside down in a ditch, staring at the bloody pulp that had once been his father's head. He held up his damaged hands and saw that every inch was coated with gore, as if he had purposely bathed in the stuff. Somewhere in the mess, Gil's headless body was resting. No one deserved to die that way. Did Gil also have family that missed him? Parents, a significant other, or even children? The sound of loud vomiting behind him snapped Miles back to reality.

Waylon was curled in a call, unable to even raise his head as he puked. Miles walked over, deceptively calm, and gently lifted Waylon up to keep his face out of his own mess. Not that a little vomit could do much damage considering Waylon was as covered as Miles with Chris' remains. Miles stood up, dragging Waylon up with him, and practically slung him over his shoulder. He had to get away from the blood and bile. Miles carefully set Waylon down before collapsing himself onto the floor.

"That…that thing…that demon was Billy? That's what we came to save?"

"That's the Walrider. It's something inside of Billy, that he can control. It's tiny robots…"

"Whatever," said Waylon, his voice sounding lifeless. "It doesn't matter. We're here. Let's just do this and get home."

Miles heard what Waylon said, but it sounded like it was coming through a bad radio reception. The words were broken up, static whooshing in between pauses, and his voice sounded tiny-distant...

Miles…Miles…

Was Waylon calling his name, or was he imagining it? He looked up and saw scared green eyes trained on his own. "Miles?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Are you alright?" asked Waylon before it seemed to dawn on him the reality of what had just happened. He stared down at his own crimson hand. "I know…I know Chris was sick but, I know what he meant to you. You did everything you could…"

"Maybe you should go up the elevator. Just, run to the car. Get out of here."

"You're trying to quit, now? I'm sorry about Chris, but you're...we're so close, let's just go and get that monster thing, and he can pick up Billy, then he can get us out of here…"

"The Walrider is controlled by Billy. We can't get his cooperation out of this place without Billy. At least, I don't think so? I don't know the specifics on how far the swarm can get without Billy, I never thought to ask I suppose…"

"Then let's go get Billy," said Waylon. Miles stared over at him, pale skin hidden by smears of brownish red. His blond hair was dripping with it. Miles reached out and brushed a chunk of organic material out of Waylon's hair, not wanting to bother trying to identify it.

"People that are close to me, they end up horribly hurt. You need to go away. Save yourself."

"You are being so stupid and dramatic right now," said Waylon, frowning in irritation. He put his hand against the wall and struggled to get himself to his feet. He leaned away from the sedated leg and glared down at Miles. "You tried to save Chris, but you were outnumbered and the law wasn't on your side. You came to rescue Billy, you didn't know the patients were running the asylum. My ankle's destroyed and I'm covered in someone else's blood, but if I have to go and help Billy myself I will because you're not a failure in this. You didn't fail. If anything, you fought on, against the worst kind of odds available to a man. You're stronger than you think. Now get up."

Miles sighed as he stood up, putting an arm around Waylon's waist. He supported Waylon as they walked around the bend, into the dark hallway, and down to two double doors. No sirens sounded, and the Walrider did not materialize. Miles held up his camcorder and used the night vision feature just to be sure. They were alone in the suffocating darkness. Soon the large set of double doors was in front of them. Miles pushed them open. He Helped Waylon through, before stopping in his tracks to stare up in awe.

"What the fuck is that," asked Waylon, reverence in his tone.

"The Morphogenic Engine, I presume?"

A/N: The next chapter is the last one, and there will also be an epilogue.