Miles Upshur 3

My Outlast (and Outlast: Whistleblower) fan-fiction. I wrote it before playing Outlast 2. I want to share it with other Outlast fans.

     I roll to a stop outside the gates of Mount Massive Asylum in the red Jeep I rented; sue me, I still miss that car.  There are several ‘No Trespassing’ signs as well as ‘Crime Scene: Do Not Enter’ tape draped across the front of the gate.  A thick chain has been wrapped through the gate several times, held closed by a large padlock.  I look past the gate at the towering structure.  I hate this place.  Memories of Chris Walker, Richard Trager, Father Martin, Billy Hope, and those twins flood my mind.  I would think that the Walrider would hate this place too, after being trapped for so long.  But, like all ghosts, we have some unfinished business to attend to.

     The wind tousles my hair as I turn and walk back to the Jeep.  I shift into Drive and gun it, ramming through the gate.  I keep going, past the guard shack, and smash through the second gate, running over a few forgotten hedges that make up the asylum’s front lawn.  I slam on the brakes, screeching to a stop at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door.

     I turn the key, switching off the car, and climb out.  I don’t bother to lock the car; I mean, who is going to steal it all the way up here?  A feeling deep in my gut says ‘f**k this.’  But I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?

     I walk up the steps and am greeted by yet more ‘No Trespassing’ signs and Crime Scene tape.  I try the door and, of course, it is locked.  I jiggle the handle, then give it a few could rams with my shoulder.  It opens on the third; damn, if I’d know it would be that easy, I would not have wasted all that time on Father Martin’s little scavenger hunt.

     The foyer of the asylum has already begun to fall into decay.  I can easily see that the team they sent in here only picked up the bodies and not much else.  Dark maroon stains cover the floor, the chairs left overturned, even a hat from one of the guards still lays next to the reception desk.  As I survey the room, I see Father Martin’s first message to me still scrawled on the wall in human blood: ‘Proclaim the Gospel.’  Crazy f**k.  He is just as responsible for ruining my life as Waylon Park.

     I continue on to the main stairway.  First stop is the administration block to see if there are any important files concerning the Engine.  I start down the corridor; jeez, this place is a mess, papers and blood strewn all about; filing cabinets left with their drawers hanging open and overturned wheelchairs.

     “Where to begin?”  I smirk to myself as I stoop to examine the first pile of papers.  Nothing important, just some patient records and newsletters.  Well this is going to take forever.  A part of me wants to just skip this part and go on down to the basement, where the lab is, but I know that would not be thorough enough to satisfy him.  I continue through the offices and stray papers.  I find a few files with Project Walrider mentioned in them and decide I should dispose of them for good measure.

     I turn into the Security Room, the door dented and laying on the ground from where Chris Walker knocked it off its hinges several weeks ago.  I spot a shredder sitting under the desk and flip the switch to ‘on.’  Surprisingly enough, it whirs to life and I run the few documents of interest that I found through it.

     I look around the decimated room and I think bitterly to myself, “Are we done here?”  I hear a loud hiss as my only reply, but he makes no move to stop me from walking to the elevator.  I pull open the retracting door of the elevator and climb in; as I turn to push it closed behind me, I can’t help but feel uneasy.  The silence of the complex - the lack of life �" it’s unsettling.  It’s worse than when there were Variants running through the halls.

     I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of those thoughts and hit the button for the sub level.  The elevator issues a loud creak, and I wonder just how much life it has left in it; if the condition of the rest of the asylum is any indication, then not much.  The elevator drops several hundred feet and as I descend into the mountain, I feel the temperature begin to drop.  When the elevator screeches to a halt, I am greeted by an industrial metal room.  Just through the set of double doors across the room from me �" which are slightly ajar �" is an ice cave of death.  Numerous Murkoff employees died here, Wernicke died here, Billy Hope died here… I should have died here.

     I walk through the glaringly white corridor, my footsteps echoing in the empty space.  As I reach the door to Wernicke’s office, I hear a sound further down the corridor.  He hears it too, I can see him materializing next to me, ready to investigate.  I lower my hand and begin down the hallway.  Another sound, a grunt or cough.  It seems to be coming from inside the cafeteria.  The Walrider glides down the hall, disappearing through the closed door.  I grip the handle, taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment.  I exhale, throwing the door open.

     Two naked men turn to face: one has black hair, the other is bald, but their faces are nearly identical.  I would know them anywhere: the twins, two of Father Martin’s flock.  Considering the fact that they tried to kill me several times, seeing that they do not have their machetes is quite the relief.

     “Looks like Father Martin’s man,” the one with black hair says, his tone the same emotionless drawl I remember.

     “And the Walrider is nearby,” the other adds.

     The Walrider swoops into view, floating above the three of us.

     “What are you two doing down here?”  I ask them, looking between both of their idiotic faces.  “I’d have thought they’d take you away when they came to collect the bodies.”

     “We hid down here,” the first said.

     “They never thought to look.”

     “No.  They didn’t know about the downstairs.”

     “So you two know how to run the elevator?”  And to think I thought that they were completely dull idiots.  Maybe the hamsters aren’t completely dead.

     “He thinks we’re stupid,” the bald one growls to the other.

     “N-no, not stupid,” I nod, “resourceful, to have evaded the authorities and survived here for the past couple weeks.  Honestly, I’m impressed.”

     “There was lots of food in the cold storage,” the one with hair says.

     “Though it isn’t to our liking, it keeps us sustained,” the other adds.

     The Walrider lets out a screech and swoops away, disappearing from sight.  I sense something, someone is coming… the Whistleblower, he is here!  And to think I thought it was okay to leave the Jeep unlocked.

     The Walrider reappears, swooping in close to the twins.  He makes a few sounds, indiscernible to me, but I know what he means all the same.

     “You want us to kill him?” the one with hair asks.  The Walrider replies with a shriek.

     “Finally, we can indulge.  I want his liver and his tongue,” the bald one says, but his face and tone of voice show no sign of emotion.

     “Yes, yours.”  The two lumber out of the room, stealing empty glances at me as they pass by.  I guess I can be thankful that they are still loyal to the Walrider and did not pose a problem.  However, the same cannot be said for Waylon Park.

     I exit the cafeteria, but before I can turn to head back to Wernicke’s office, I notice a dry erase board.  A few lines of equation are scrawled upon it underneath the heading ‘Morphogenic Engine.’  A few measly lines of math and my whole life goes to s**t.  I walk over to the whiteboard and run my hand across it, smearing the formula.  That rage suddenly fills me as I begin wiping the entire board clean, hands smacking the whiteboard, friction and sweat causing them to stick to the surface instead of sliding smoothly.  I let out an angry cry and flip over the smeary board.  It clatters to the floor and echoes throughout the lab.

     I take a few deep breaths, examining my now-throbbing pinky.  I think it is broken �" but never fear, nano-bot demon is here!  It will be repaired before I reach Wernicke’s office.  I walk down the hall, turning to enter the room.  Of all the rooms in the place, this one is the most spotless.  A large painting of an Alp �" a demonic creature from German folklore �" takes up an entire wall of the room.  It depicts the Alp suckling blood from the n*****s of a man.  Charming.

I look at the painting a moment longer, the rage building up inside me again.  I pull my lighter out of my jacket pocket, flipping it on.  I kneel to one of the bottom corners of the painting and wave the flame against it until it catches.  The fire creeps up the edge of the painting, licking the image.  It grows brighter and hotter the more of the artwork it consumes.  It takes only a few minutes for the entire thing to be up in flames, the heat from it warming my cold skin.  I stand there, admiring my handiwork, a sneer forming on my lips.

Author's Note

My Outlast (and Outlast: Whistleblower) fan-fiction. I wrote it before playing Outlast 2. I want to share it with other Outlast fans. That being said, if you have not played the games or do not have an extensive knowledge of them, the story will likely not make sense, seeing as I literally picked up my story where they left off.