Book Outlast: The Murkoff Account Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This story is a literary retelling of the comic book Outlast: The Murkoff Account by Red Barrels. The Murkoff Account tells the story of what occurs between the end of Outlast Whistleblower and the beginning of Outlast II. If you don't know about Outlast, which was a very popular (and thoroughly terrifying) M rated horror game that came out in 2013 I suggest reading up on the story-line for the original game here and the subsequent sequel (Whistleblower) here.

Summary:The trans national Murkoff corporation tirelessly pushes the frontier of scientific research and development. Partnering with the greatest minds of tomorrow, Murkoff expands the reach of every branch of scientific inquiry, including gene therapy, behavioral psychology, information technology, and medicine.

In the event of mistake or oversight the Murkoff Insurance Mitigation Department comes in to minimize economic fallout. Mitigation officers are damage control. They are not here to save lives or help people, they are here to make sure it doesn't cost the company any more than it has to.

Outlast: The Murkoff Account
Chapter 2

[POV: Pauline Glick]
​

I sit at the table, deep in thought. A plate of food, such as it is, lies in front of me. It's loaded with the best the Murkoff Rehabilitation Center can offer, which just happens to be roughly the same thing every single day. A large steak, several slices of asparagus, and a side of mashed potatoes, although sometimes they are exchanged with a peach. Today it's the mashed potatoes. I have spent the last few weeks here, ever since a particularly dangerous job that's landed by right arm in a sling and me unable to walk. It's not so bad though, I've had a lot of fun running people down in my electric wheel chair when they get in my way. I smile at the thought, I don't do it that much, running people down, but just enough to keep the personnel around here on their toes. Heh... The experience has been almost enjoyable as confinement can be, except for one drawback that's made life considerably more difficult for me: the injury to my right hand. It was crushed by a steel plate in the last operation, a debacle I prefer not to think about, which has left it wrapped in a mountain of bandages and rubbing alcohol. I write, throw, shoot, and most importantly, eat with my right, I never had much use for my left. So far I've managed to sign my name with my other hand but eating is another thing entirely, what if I wish to eat my steak? I need someone to hold it in place whilst I divide it into edible chunks otherwise it goes flying. I know, I've already made a mess of myself several times already. Normally if I need help with my daily meals, or almost anything else, I ring the bright red panic button on the arm of my chair and a nurse attends to my needs within minutes. This time is different. This time, I have visitors.

My curiosity was piqued from the moment I heard that two staff from Murkoff corporate headquarters were coming to visit me. Murkoff had practically done everything but put a bag over my head and send me to some forsaken island in Asia after I escaped from the facility in one piece. I had seen too much, I had been too involved, what if I told someone what I knew? I never would have done that of course, it was not and still isn't, in my best interests to screw the people I worked for. Not the way Paul did. I shake my head softly, no I would never do that. The two suits from Murkoff know that too, that's why they're here to talk to me today. The one on the left is tall with short, curly black hair, and has no name. No matter, I decide to come up with one for him. How about Jeff? Yes, I think, that name will suit him fine. The suit sitting across from me on the other hand, is important enough to have a name. He introduces himself as Gary Lane, an investigator from Human Resources. It's about time they sent someone from HR. Of course, he has to talk to me. About what I don't know yet, but I can guess. I'll find out soon enough. I look down at my perfectly laid out plate, complete with the necessary silverware, the knife, spoon, fork, there's even a cup of water, and my stomach emits a low growl. Time to eat, I'm getting hungry.

"I'm going to need a little help here." I say, motioning to my plate with my good arm.
"Happy to lend a hand." Jeff says.
"Please do."
Jeff sits down and grabs the fork. I take the knife and begin cutting up the steak into perfect squares, as he holds the pieces in place per my instructions. Gary Lane, the man from HR, sees his opportunity and launches into his spiel.
"I hope, Ms. Glick, you won't mind talking while you eat?" he says, "The matter is urgent." Of course the matter is urgent. Even from here I monitor the news, especially the stock prices, I know of the disasters occurring at Murkoff. They're facing dozens of lawsuits, many of them from tort barons who saw nothing but opportunity after the debacle at Mount Massive and subsequent disasters, not to mention investigations from the FBI and two congressional committees. Insurance mitigation had been unable to keep Murkoff's numerous sins quiet and word had gotten out. Now, they are hemorrhaging money and the suits in New York have finally decided to send some poor soul from HR to resurrect old ghosts from a forgotten employee to figure out what the hell went wrong. They had better figure it out fast, I think, Murkoff's stock has already tanked from $27.50 to just under $1.05 a share in a month. Even while I'm locked away in Detroit I've heard tell that the investors had grown suicidal. I know it's only a matter of time before someone jumps. I have no intention of letting that happen, I'll stop it, if I can.

"Call me Pauline, please." I say, "And of course, we can talk while I eat."
Gary smiles politely at this, "Good. Where do you want to start?" There are so many places, given company history.
"With the steak please." Jeff impales a neatly cut square of it on the fork and brings it to my mouth. I don't hesitate, it's delicious.
"No I meant..."
"I know what you meant." I say, now that I've finished with the square. Jeff already has another one in place for me. I work on that while Gary talks.
"Do you understand the gravity of this meeting Pauline?" Gary asks, "I'm sure you know about the bind we're in." Suddenly it was we. Not I, or the Murkoff corporation, but we. After being hidden away for several weeks by the company I've risked so much to protect, to save an extra buck whenever possible, now I have been brought back into the picture.
"I understand it perfectly Mr. Lane." I say. "You want to know where to find Paul Marion before he does any more harm."
"Yes. And more importantly we need to minimize the fallout from what he's already done." Of course you do, I think, it's not every day one of your most trusted employees goes rouge and kills fourteen people is it? Paul's actions had been terrible but not altogether surprising. There had always been something off about my partner in insurance mitigation.
"Sounds familiar." I say, "More meat please." Jeff complies. Seconds later the steak is history and I'm already eyeing the asparagus. Yesterday it was broccoli, so I welcome the change, I'm much more partial to asparagus.
"We don't know how early his sabotage of the Murkoff corporation began," Gary continues, "So I'd appreciate it if you'd start at the beginning."
"The beginning? That would be in 2008, six years ago. As soon as we were partnered up at IM they started calling us 'the Pauls'. Paul Marion and Pauline Glick, hilarious. Do you remember the hat box murders?"
Both men shift uncomfortably in their seats at this. They remember. Who could forget them? They had been unusually grisly and brutal, even for murder. It was several moments before Gary finds his voice again, "Yes I remember. What's his name, the - uh Egyptian guy killed all those veterans..."
"Omar, an American." I correct him, "His grandparents were Egyptian. He was born in Newark."
"Ah yes, of course. Would you mind describing how you and Paul found him responsible for the killings?"
"Not at all." I say as I chew on the asparagus, "When we arrived they had just found the third body. One Martin Bellmont. Took them a day to piece him back together. Just like the others, the head was gone." I pause, "I'm sorry is this too graphic for you gentlemen?"

Gary exchanges a look with Jeff. Neither of them say a word. No doubt they're determined to prove that they too, can handle a little violence. I almost laugh at this, I've seen so much blood and guts that it hardly bothers me anymore, talking about it certainly doesn't. "Very well. Bellmont was a veteran of Iraq, and like the first two victims, a patient at Spindletop Psychotherapy Clinic in Hattin, Texas. As you know, Murkoff bought Spindletop two years earlier as part of Blair's 'Research Through Charity' initiative. They had a government contract to help our returning veterans cope with PTSD."
"Yes that's company record."
"Right, but we ran into a problem when we arrived."
"What sort of problem?" Gary asks. I pause as Jeff shovels another forkful of food into my mouth, now the asparagus is history too.
"The chief psychotherapist there wasn't already under Murkoff management so we had to give him 'the speech'."
"The speech?"
I smile, "That's right."

...

The body of Martin Bellmont, or what was left of Martin Bellmont lay on the gernie in front of us. Like the other two, he is naked and stitches crisscross the areas where his limbs had been ripped apart, apparently by brute force. For the burial they had been reattached, the man had to have some dignity after all, although the head was still missing. In fact, none of the corpses have heads, which presents several problems, not the least of which is the smell. The awful stench of human insides, exposed at the neck, is overpowering. It makes me want to permanently attach a clothespin to my nose. Somehow the scene doesn't seem to bother my partner in insurance mitigation, Paul Marion, too much. He stands with a blank expression on his chubby face, staring at a picture held in his hand, one of Bellmont provided to us by the family, and then at the body. Back and forth, back and forth, like he isn't sure of something.

"Are you sure this is Bellmont?" he asks.
"That's what the FBI said."

Paul shrugs and says nothing. He quietly pockets Bellmont's photo. He's seen enough and so have I. We aren't detectives, unless we have to be, but we are smart enough to know that these bodies could cause a lot of trouble for Murkoff if anyone got curious about their ties to Spindletop. We leave the morgue and head for the car. I'm driving and Paul, who is currently fiddling with his ever present yellow tie, will sit quietly and watch the world go by. Conversation, if it happens at all, is brief and short lived.

"It seems unnessecarily brutal doesn't it?" Paul says as I turn the key in the ignition and the Honda Prius, the common choice of Murkoff company cars, roars to life and cruises down the street at twenty miles an hour.
"What seems unnessecarily brutal Paul?"
"Bellmont's murder." he says softly. I nod in agreement. All the murders did. Each of the three victims had been ripped apart, limb from limb, and if they hadn't been stitched back together it'd be impossible to tell one from the next. It was hard enough without the heads. I sigh and try to focus on the dusty road and avoiding potholes, cleaning up grisly messes was the least favorite part of my job. Not that it was a task that anyone would ever enjoy this sort of thing. I'm not here to save lives, I tell myself, I'm here to limit collateral damage. Money. Money. Money. Keep the premiums down. I remind my partner of this but he, characteristically, doesn't say a word. Oh well, this will soon be over, nothing more than another old nightmare swept under the rug. Neutralizing the killer will be difficult though, especially given the viciousness of the killings. Who would be capable of doing such things? I put a hand on the .38 in my holster and thank God I'm armed. So is Paul but I won't need him for now. He's already daydreaming.

We arrive at Spindletop five minutes later. From a glance the outlook is not impressive. It's a drab, run down looking building with blinds over every window. The flimsy wooden door past the porch steps is our only way in. We enter, are given a quick run down by a bored looking guard, and find our way down the narrow corridor to the office of the chief psychotherapist, one of five at the clinic, Dr. Eugene Claymore. The office, seemingly defying the physics of the place, is large and full of junk, the hallmark of a career nerd attempting to compensate for some deficiency with trophies and real estate. It almost works. There's an ego wall littered with degrees and various official papers, all framed, including an enlarged copy of Dr. Claymore's M.D. from Texas A&M University and some achievements in the field of psychology. Paul and I take a seat on the couch behind the ego wall, facing Dr. Claymore at his desk and the obligatory bookshelf of useless tomes serving no purpose other than to impress the odd visitor or two. Also on the shelf are three wood carved statues I don't recognize, although they draw Paul's attention at once, but I can't imagine what significance they have to him. I'm ready to get down to business and I, as has become the case with Paul, will do most of the talking.

"Welcome to Spindletop Psychotherapy." Dr. Claymore says now that we're properly seated. A bony man with long gray-brown hair, glasses, jutted jawline, and mousy voice, the deficiencies he might be trying to compensate for are immediately apparent. But who am I to judge? I miss most of what Dr. Claymore says but fortunately I catch the end, "What can I do for you?"

"We're here on behalf of the Murkoff corporation after we heard about the recent murders of three of your clients." I say.
"I see. I can't say that I've heard of Murkoffe but -"
"Murkoff." I correct him.
"Yes... Murkoff." Dr. Claymore readjusts his glasses and focuses his full attentions on us, "What's your interest in the killings? Is Murkoff a private detective agency of some kind? Are you here to investigate?"
"No, Murkoff has no interest in crime. Nor are we here to save anybody. The company you work for belongs to a company that belongs to the Murkoff corporation. Accidents and lawsuits raise Murkoff's insurance premiums, and unnecessary expense makes us sad." I lean forward and hand Dr. Claymore my business card, which he takes without a word. "We're damage control. We'll help out as much as we can, but our bottom line is our bottom line. We're legal mitigation, nothing more, nothing less."
Dr. Claymore nods slowly as he takes in this barrage of new information, "So your card says." he drops it on the desk along with the paperwork where it will almost certainly be lost and forgotten.
I press on, "The murdered men were all patients of yours?"
"They were."
"We'll need to see any notes you have on their therapy sessions."
"That's impossible." Dr. Claymore says, "Doctor-patient confidentiality. Unless of course you can provide a warrant like those FBI men did."
We don't have a warrant. That presents a minor problem but it's something we can workaround so I'm not concerned about it. I'm about to continue before Paul, for whatever reason, perhaps he got bored staring at his surroundings, decides to jump into the conversation. Not that I mind, the change in pace is more than welcome.
"We'll need any information you gave to the FBI." Paul says, "We may need to shape your testimony."
Dr. Claymore narrows his eyes at this. He clearly doesn't like what he's hearing, "Now hold on a second..." he says suspiciously. Paul doesn't seem to have heard him. Instead he suddenly appears interested in the winged statues on the doctor's bookshelf.

"Are these Sumerian?" he asks.
Dr. Claymore appears slightly taken aback at the shift in the conversation but he must be mollified by someone taking notice of one of his trophies so he raises no objection, "That's right, Mr. Marion. My patients were damaged while working in the Middle East. Does good to include some Arabic culture, to show it's not all war."
"Who are they?"
"The Apkallu Demi-Gods, given to man to establish civilization and guard against it's destruction." Dr. Claymore explains. Interesting stuff, I think, but what does this have to do with Bellmont and the other victims? Probably nothing at all. Paul's just getting overly curious.
"Like the Nephilim, Genesis 4 'The sons of god came in unto the daughters of men.' Their children the mighty men of renown." Paul adds. I don't know what any of this means but I know it isn't relevant to the task at hand. I decide to steer the conversation back on track,
"With animal heads, Paul. Let's get back on track."
Unfortunately Dr. Claymore is still stuck on the Sumerian Demi-Gods. Paul doesn't seem to mind it but I do, "Some scholars think so." he says, "I like to think it helps our soldiers see Christian and Islamic myths coming from the same place."
"Your reports describe experimental therapy. Reliving and dissecting the event until it stops hurting." I say, "Is that correct?"
Dr. Claymore nods. He's finally looked away from the Demi-Gods and we're back on track. Thank God. "That's where it started, but we began to see negative effects in the therapeutic spiral, psychological wounds would close, then reopen wider as the therapy continued. Our current method is dream therapy. Guided by hypnosis, they can re-experience and release the traumatic events subconsciously, without a burden to the waking mind."
I frown at this, "That seems dangerously close to leading the witness. How do you know you're not shaping the patient's memory?"
"The mind knows what it needs. The therapy was remarkably effective. Rates of substance abuse plummeted, self harm and suicidal thoughts were all but eliminated."
"That sounds great, except for those three homicides. We're going to need to see the consultation transcripts."
Dr. Claymore doesn't budge, "That's impossible." he says, "Get a warrant or talk to the FBI."

I give him a tight smile in return, it's all I can manage other than a hearty "Screw you". He's stonewalling us but it doesn't matter. There are plenty of other sources around Spindletop Paul and I can use to get the information. I glance at the wall behind Dr. Claymore and see one of those sources at once. It's a security camera moving back and forth capturing everything in the room, exactly alike the three others I'd see in the hallway on our way here. That's it, I think, We don't need consultation transcripts. We have video surveillance. I stand and thank Dr. Claymore, it's time to go. Paul does the same, somehow managing to put in a good word about the doctor's Chinese clock, before we exit the office, shutting the door in our wake.

Things are already coming together.

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I don't like being it.