Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Six ❖ Blood and Guts

I look up at Miles with hazy eyes, relief and mild fear clashing together into a horrible stew in my stomach. He frowns, looking no happier than I feel, but reaches out a hand to help me up.

"At least," he whispers, "they're not here to gut us both."

You know it's bad when that's the upside.

I brush myself down, picking glass shards and pieces of dirt from the front of my coat. One more tear and I'll be scattering feather down all over the place.

The closest room, a large office, is handily accessible with the glass window broken in. Miles leans in, scoping the place out for any sign of our friends, then hops over the sill. I follow suit. It's actually perfectly clean, aside from a guard slumped in his chair, dead. His death seems to be one of the more peaceful ones I've come across so far; at least his corpse wasn't dragged elsewhere.

The desk is a mess of papers and files. I keep watch as Miles sifts through them, muttering things like, "Nope, nope, useless," and at one point snorting, "'patients making excellent progress', my ass." Then he finds one of interest and snaps a picture. It's a small scrap of a note, barely worth looking at in my opinion.

MURKOFF CORP. P.G. MAINTENANCE MEMO

Proper Purge Gate maintenance is crucial to PROJECT WALRIDER security. Please refer to Murkoff Corp. Maintenance Manual MMPSMM180286 or seek guidance from a supervisor with the proper security clearance.

"Project Walrider," Miles murmurs, then gives a hum of thought and flips through the other documents we've collected. "It keeps coming up, in the patient files. And those decontamination chambers... they've got something to do with it." He nods at the purge gate just outside, fizzing with broken electrics.

There's little else in the office, just a half-full battery on one of the desks at the far end of the room. Miles pockets it without a word, and we're on our way again.

The malfunctioning purge gate offers a clear path into the dark again, but I'd be lying if I said I were eager to go traipsing into the inky black. Even if there is a light at the end of the hallway. Fortunately, Father Martin's directions lead us straight to the showers, bloody handprints smeared down the wall like someone tried to prop themselves up and got dragged away.

Unfortunately, it needs a keycard.

"Couldn't be fuckin' straightforward, could it?" Miles mutters. "No, that would be too easy."

So through the purge gate it is. There's a faint screaming somewhere too close, and every fiber of my being says not to go and investigate, but that's the way we have to go, and Miles' reporter instincts are tingling against his better judgement. If anything, he seems to speed up, and I'm wondering why the hell I clambered into that window with him after all.

The corridor doesn't end, but the chipped plaster of the walls gives way to chicken wire caging that gives us a clear view of the prison block below. Walker is there, holding someone who might be a security guard or an executive by the collar. Miles freezes, his camera lifted.

The man struggles for a brief second, pleading hopelessly, before Walker tears his body out from under his head as easily as popping open a Pringles can. There's an inmate running around with his hands in the air, and it's so ridiculous I might laugh if the whole thing weren't so completely horrifying. Instead I just cling to Miles, neither shutting my eyes nor screaming, because I'm so frozen with sheer terror that my brain has simply shut down and I physically can't.

"We have to contain it," Walker mutters to himself, then lumbers away.

Beside me, Miles is murmuring into his camera. "Miles Upshur, September 17th, nine forty-eight. I can't shake Walker, the big ugly fucker who likes ripping off people's heads. I hear him muttering about security protocols, containment. What if he's not the problem? What if he's trying to fix it?"