Book Outlast: The Murkoff Account Chapter 1

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 1​

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. But then again, none of it was. Everything had gone wrong. Horribly, disastrously wrong. In a matter of months I had seen things I wasn’t supposed to see. Men ripped apart, blood and gore everywhere. I hoped to god I’d never see such things again. Part of it was my fault. I had done things I was not supposed to do. I had broken every rule in the book, literally and figuratively. Laws were nothing but a nuisance to be circumvented or tied up in litigation. Taxes were a joke. They always had been during my four years at the Murkoff corporation. As part of Murkoff’s Insurance Mitigation Department team, I’d helped them write the book on how to beat the rap and avoid accountability for their endless crimes. From day one I was told my job wasn’t to save lives, it was to save money. Lots of money. I performed well and Murkoff rewarded me. I was a senior partner in deceit and now I’m… no me and the corporation… the whole damn thing’s going down in flames. I thought I’d make it out okay, just a short time ago. There was no evidence of my crimes. The cover-up was masterful. I had ten thousand dollars in my pockets and a one way ticket to Sweden. It was my way out, until someone found out about it.

I groan and press the towel against my bloodied eyeball. The entire left half of my face has been savaged and all I can see out of it is a red haze. So much blood… it seeps through the towel, which serves as a rudimentary compress for my wounds, runs through my hands and trickles down my arm. Sh*t. I fumble with it for a moment, attempting to find a dry patch somewhere, but the whole thing is soaked through with blood. I give up on readjusting the towel and press it tight against my face. But it does nothing to mitigate the pain. The eye is moving again. Dinging, gouged from the socket by a vicious attack it threatens to plunge half my vision to the floor every few seconds. Heh…that would be my luck. Someone once told me that you can’t move one eye without moving the other. They were right. It’s a new experience in pain every time my left eye moves, scraping against my fleshless socket, bringing the retina in contact with charred bone. I try to look straight ahead as I search for an exit. I haven’t found it yet. Liberty Mutual in Virginia is a big place and it’s not every day you walk out with someone else’s money. Ten thousand dollars of it.

The money, all in twenties for some damn reason, lines my coat pockets. Damn it, I curse myself again for not bringing along a suitcase for the job. Things would have been so much easier that way. But I didn’t have the time to pack. I had to get in and get out, and get out fast. What doesn’t fit in my pockets is clinched tightly in my hand, the one not holding the towel, like it’s the only thing keeping me going. In a way it is. Someone is after me and I don’t know who. I suspect they’re from Murkoff since they know I did it. I screwed them and now they’re coming to screw me. The money is substantial, enough to buy anyone for a quick favour in case I need to disappear. I have about four hundred in the palm of my hand. I counted it in the vault: twenty twenties partially bloodied and accounted for. I didn’t think I’d have the time to count it all but at Murkoff we had grown highly efficient at counting the money. Especially me. We were part of a vulture capitalist corporation after all; making the big bucks off human suffering was a lucrative enterprise. It was what we did. Now it’s over and the corporation is being destroyed by their own sh*t, along with a few surprises I left behind. A chill runs down my spine when I think of the Walrider. A monster created by the mad doctors at Mount Massive in a science experiment gone too far, it is one of the many driving forces for my escape.

Somehow I find the exit, stumble outside and hail a taxi with my wad of cash. He quickly pulls alongside me and I hop in.

“Jesus dude, what happened to your face?” the driver asks, taken aback by my appearance. I ignore him and thrust two twenties in his face.

“Don’t talk just drive.” I say. He looks at me with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. It must be the blood. There sure is a lot of it. Maybe he’s worried about me messing up his taxi I think. Couldn’t imagine why. Anyway that’s none of my concern. I dish out another twenty for the boy. “Make it sixty. Can you get me to Langley in a half hour?”

This softens him up a little and he stops cringing, “Yes sir.” He takes the money.

“I’m in a hurry.” I say.

“Yes sir.”

Several minutes, maybe a half hour later I’m not sure, but I finally arrive outside FBI headquarters in Langley. The large seal on the grey-brick building noted FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION would be hard to miss, even for someone like me. It’s hard to describe the emotions I felt when I found it. A way out. My last and only chance to avoid an early demise. The closest thing that comes to mind is relief, pure sweet, joyous relief. No more lies, no more cover-up’s, no more grisly deaths. A clean slate, nearly. Even life in prison is looking good at this point, although I never thought it would. I thank the driver and hand him another twenty.

“No problem man.” He says, slightly less nervous than before. I nod and bade him well. I know I’ll never see him again.

I turn around and lower the towel to get a better look at the place. Bad mistake. I forgot about the thing dangling out of my left eye socket. Blood spurts out of the damn things like a miniature geyser as I hastily replace the towel. Nothing helps. Pain ripples across my face as my vision goes lopsided and blurry. I swear loudly and jam the towel firmly into place, forcing the eye back into the socket with a squish. The blood seeps through the cloth and down my arm but it’ll do. My eye stops moving. I bend down and survey my mess like a curious toddler. Blood splattered all over the sidewalk. There’s a blood trail that extends all the way from the curb. I feel queasy as I realize how much I’ve lost. By some miracle I regain my composure and open the door with a partially clenched fist. Some of the twenties in my hand fall to the floor as I do so. I don’t care. Ninety six hundred of it is in my coat and that’s enough to buy a lot of people. I won’t have it for much longer. I’m sure the cameras are catching all of this anyway.

I don’t know how long it takes people to notice me, a bloodied mess with a load of stolen cash, staggering out into the FBI lobby with dozens of agents around but it must have been pretty quick. No sooner do I take five steps inside before someone screams. A woman, I think. I’m not sure of anything in my state. I stumble on but others are taking notice. Now a man is shouting something unintelligible. I sway from side to side as I struggle to maintain my balance. The pain is getting to me and the nausea is overwhelming. Oh god… I think I need a doctor.

“Hey you! Are you okay?” a voice says. It’s loud and full of concern. It’s the man from a moment ago. “Sir, are you okay?” he’s in my face now and I see his uniform. A security guard or a police officer, not that I care about the difference.

“The last time I saw someone like you…” I mutter, my voice a strangled croak, “he had his head ripped off…” I cackle and collapse, banging my head against the wall with a splat. More money spills out of my pockets. The pain is unbearable but I can’t stop laughing. This guy must think I’m a psychopath. No sir, not me, just the company I work for.

The guard is thoroughly spooked by my little show. “Stop!” he demands, whipping out his gun and pointing it at my forehead, “Let me see your hands!” his voice has grown to a shout, a mix of concern and fear. I stop laughing. "Let me see them!"

“Okay...” I say, slowly putting my right hand up. More of the money scatters on the floor. I hear several bystanders gasp. Look at all that money.

“Both hands!” the guard shouts, “Put your hands up now!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” I slur, gesturing to the towel, “I - I need to keep this on my face.” Too late. Another wave of pain rattles my skull. I gasp and lean over. The nausea is powerful, seconded only by the throbbing pain around my eye. The world becomes blurry. I think I’m going into shock. For some reason I decide to comply with the guard’s demands and release the compress. Both hands are on the air and the towel is splattered on the floor. “I need you to arrest me.” I say. But I can’t fight the nausea anymore. Before I know it I’m throwing up at the man’s feet. He jumps back and grabs his radio. I think he’s calling the ER. Someone in a black suit runs over and grabs me around the torso. Lucky him, he arrives just in time to see my eyeball fall out.

“Holy crap I can still see out of that eye.” I murmur. It’s too much. The whole thing, it’s too much for me. Someone lays me gently on the floor and I black out in a pool of blood.

Sometime later I’m in the hospital. My clothes, ragged and blood-soaked khakis are gone, replaced with a pale green hospital gown. The money is gone too, although that was expected. A thick bandage covers much of what’s left of my face. I’m in bed with covers pulled up to my torso and an IV in my arm. A monitor on my bedside lists my condition as stable. I watch my heart rate on the screen before I’m convinced. The shades are drawn. Whether it is night or day doesn’t matter, I’m still alive and that’s what does.

“Good evening Mr. Marion.” A man says. He’s sitting by my bedside. I briefly wonder how I missed him for the few minutes I’ve been conscious but I forget about it. I haven’t been on top of things lately.

“So it’s night after all.” I say softly. What do you know?

“It’s approximately nine fifteen Mr. Marion.” Go figure. He must have a watch. All the government types do. He must be a government type. He had to be. Who else would be in here to see me after all I’d done?

“Please call me Paul.” I say.

“Paul it is.” The government type replies.

“I assume you’re with the bureau.”

“Yes.”

“You’re here to talk about my plea?”

“Such as it is.” The government type says, pulling out a file from nowhere. It’s my profile, “An officer at Langley found you entering the building suffering severe trauma in your left eye and possessing a sum of approximately ten thousand dollars. The money was stolen, along with another one point nine million wired to an offshore account in Switzerland at Swisse Bank. Is that correct Paul?”

“It is.”

He opens the file, “Mr. Paul Marion, born in Cincinnati, passed the Ohio state bar exam, 1987. No current address. You’re claiming responsibility for one count of arson, one kidnapping, and fourteen murders.”

I nod, affirming my sick track record, “At least fourteen. There might be more.”

“We’ve heard. Investigators found some of the bodies’ hours ago, all buried within a mile of Murkoff company headquarters. You were brought to Hartford General Hospital nine hours ago and underwent treatment for six. Your condition was stabilized several hours ago. We’ve looked and there’s circumstantial evidence for the killings but no direct link.”

“That’s my job.” I say.

The government type shrugged, “How were you hurt Paul?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere, given the seriousness of your situation.”

“Who are you?” I ask. Names aren’t important but I like to know them anyway.

“For the sake of conversation let’s say I’m Alex.” Alex replies.

“What do you want?”

“The truth.” Alex says, “A high level employee of one of the world’s largest providers of biological security doesn’t simply walk into the bureau, half dead, asking to be arrested for no reason. We’ve been watching you for some time Paul and we know how you operate. We'd been planning to arrest you for weeks but you came to us first. Tell me about Murkoff. Tell me how you killed fourteen people.”

“That could take time too.” I reply. A lot of time. And the truth was just as chilling as the fiction.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I want a lawyer.” I say even though I have no intention of getting one. Even Perry Mason couldn't get me out of this mess. But hey, why not have a little fun when I have nothing to lose?

“Go ahead and get one. It won’t do you any good.” Alex says. He knows, I think, he knows how screwed I am. Why else would he act so relaxed about the possibility of several years of courtroom infighting? Definite proof of my embezzlement of Murkoff will do that. He mentioned the one point nine million, how could he not know of that little crime? There was a noose around my neck all this time and I didn’t even know it.

“How much do you know?” I ask. Most of the time I’m one step ahead of the government. I wasn’t accustomed to being behind.

“The FBI knows what I said earlier about your financial affairs and everything from the Park videos.” Alex explains. Oh yes, the Park videos. How could anyone forget about that damning seven part video series ever since Waylon uploaded it on WikiLeaks? It had shocked the world with its documentation of the massacre at Mount Massive Asylum. Damage control had been a failure. There was no coming back. The fallout had been too great. It was bound to happen someday. Things had been spiralling out of control long beforehand.

“What do I get if I tell you my story?” that’s what I was here to tell after all. But I had to do a little horse trading first.

“A lot.”

“Such as?”

“We’ll forget about everything but the killings, if you committed them.”

“I did it.”

“Then that stays on your record.”

“Heh.” I chuckle. What a deal. “So I get my life sentences but my family walks free?”

“That’s the deal.” Alex forgets about the file and reaches into his obligatory briefcase and pulls out a thick stack of papers. For show he waves it in front of me. The word INDICTMENT is splashed across the front page in large black letters. I smile in spite of myself. At last, ladies and gentlemen, we have the indictment. A thorough and well deserved one no doubt. Alex confirms this, “This is an indictment Paul. It charges you with embezzlement of the one point nine million in Switzerland plus an additional two point six million over a period of four years, identity theft, three counts of larceny, tax evasion, and fraud.”

“What else?” I ask, surprised at the bureau’s knowledge of my years of bogus transactions. I had been very careful about that. I must have gotten sloppy at some point.

“Quite a bit. It’s a long list.”

“Give me a teaser.”

“Complicity in the mistreatment and torture of inmates at Mount Massive Asylum and an active participant in the subsequent cover-up.” Alex says, “The Park videos are enough to put you and the rest of Murkoff’s personnel in prison for life Paul. And we will gladly do that regardless. You were part of the insurance mitigation division at Murkoff. You had the access and the information to what happened when the morphogenic engine was launched. The FBI sees you as the last remaining key to the truth of what really happened and we’d like to know about it. So would the families.”

“The families?”

“The immediate relatives of the people killed who had contact with the Murkoff corporation.” Alex explains. Oh, those families. Of course.

“Have you tried talking to Pauline Glick? She was my partner.”

“We haven’t been able to talk to her.”

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