Book Outlast: The Murkoff Account Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This story is a literary retelling of the comic bookOutlast: 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 3

[POV: Paul Marion]​

The doctor's face is grim as he addresses Alex, my friendly FBI agent, "We need to operate." he says, "The infection in that eye," he gestures to the bloodied mess of bandages plastered over the left side of my face, "is remarkably aggressive. I suspect it's due to prolonged exposure to a dirty cloth or the like. If we don't address it immediately he could lose vision and some brain function in the temporal lobe."
Alex, to my slight surprise, nods sympathetically as if he'd like nothing better than to accommodate my every need, "Sure, sure. I can just stop by later... when he's conscious..."
When I'm conscious? When? I don't like the sound of this. I came to this tea party after all. I'm going to set the terms for it. "Hold on." I interject as Alex and the doctor confer on what to do with me, "How long will I be unconscious?"
The doctor turns to me as if caught by surprise and scans his clipboard, "Uh, twenty four hours full sedation and probably another thirty six of heavy pain medication." he reads.

Sixty hours of sedation to save some godforsaken memories and an eye that's already been blown to hell? That sounded like a waste of time if there ever was one. No, I'm not here to save myself a little pain or what's left of my vision. Only to stop an assassination. I'm here to tell the world what six previous whistleblowers had failed to tell: the truth, all of it. Today my tenuous relationship with what is real and what is not ends, and I'm just getting started.

I must be taking a lot of time because Alex is suddenly motivated to rejoin the conversation, "Well what do you say Paul?"
I shrug, "I don't mind losing some brain function if it takes memories with it."
"But you will let us operate?" the doctor asks. Heh, the poor guy probably can't wait to cut me open; even the look on his face is wanting. No matter, he'll get his chance soon enough. "Yes. But first I finish my story."
"Very well."
​

....​

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[POV: Pauline Glick]​

My interrogator, Mr. Gary Lane from HR, sips his glass cooly in one of our many 'mini-breaks' from his questioning. Our session, such as it is, is largely over, or it would seem to be that way. My plate, save for the odd morsel or two, is empty. As we reach the two hour mark Jeff sits with little to do and nothing to say whilst Gary finishes off his drink. Testimony-wise the session has been thorough, yet as far as information is concerned we have barely scratched the surface. The surface of the long, dark, brutal nightmare that is Murkoff company history. Perhaps some things are better left swept under the rug. Has Gary decided to let sleeping dogs lie or is his ignorance of Murkoff's crimes limiting his questioning? I wonder...

"Well," Gary says as he wipes his chin with a napkin, "thank you for your time Ms. Glick. As for your meal, I hope you enjoyed it."
"Thank you." I say politely.
"Yes, of course." Gary says, but then he frowns as if he has something more to say. He does, "However... I was under the impression that you were going to tell us about Waylon Park. How he got to Peacock."

Waylon Park. So he's not going to keep everything under the rug is he? I smile at Gary. Is Murkoff finally ready to confront their past? Maybe, but maybe not. With Park they have little choice. He was a software engineer from I.T. at Mount Massive for a few weeks back in 2012. In many aspects Park had been the perfect employee, young, dedicated, brilliant, and seemingly ignorant of what Murkoff was doing in the hospital. Of course, things are not always as they seem and that was the case with Park. The problem with him should have been obvious: he had a conscience.

I sigh and stare at my plate as memories of just how much damage Park's troubled conscience had caused Murkoff, in money and in lives. It was incalculable. Sure the kid had only been trying to do some good, alerting the world to the psychopaths running the asylum, but the company does not reward heroism. Stocks do not go up because of ethics. They never have. They are slaves to the bottom line as are all Murkoff employees. The bottom line and nothing but the bottom line. Anyone with other designs was an outsider, a threat to the company that must be contained, and terminated if necessary. Thankfully termination was not in my line of work, it was messy stuff anyway. Simon Peacock, or Jeremy Blaire, had taken it upon himself to destroy Park after he'd discovered what he'd done, first through the morphogenic engine to drive him insane, and then by killing him once the situation got out of control. Everything Blaire did was in the name of profit, the company logs showed as much. Even his death, ripped apart and his insides splattered over the carpet, was all for the sake of protecting what made him rich and powerful. Very powerful... men playing God.

"Peacock..." I murmur, "Nothing left but gristle and bone."
Gary seems taken aback at this, "What was that Ms. Glick?"
"Simon Peacock." I say, regaining my composure in an instant, "Of course. Can I ask, how high is your security clearance?"
"Pretty high, we're both alpha gray." Gary says. Jeff, in the first move he's made in a half hour, nods in agreement. Yes, he too, is important.
"I see. What would you say if I said 'eskimo reuben'?"
"Excuse me?"
"Ah, never mind." I say, clearly these two are not clued in. I decide to spare them the details, some of them that is. There's a lot of space under the rug after all, "Simon Peacock is dead."
"Dead?"
"Very. His story, and Waylon Park's, gets us back to Mount Massive."
Gary brings our his notepad and pencil and gives me his full attention. It's question time, "Let's start from the beginning." he says.
"An anonymous employee at Mount Massive complained to Human Resources about safety conditions at the hospital."
Gary nods, "Yes we know."
"Naturally. Marion and I were sent in to find any potentially litigious dangers." That was a time when I knew him as Paul. Our relationship has... chilled since then.
​

...​

Paul and I sit, bent over, at the screen of a Murkoff company computer and read through the latest disaster to arrive at our doorstep at Insurance Mitigation. An email from Mount Massive Hospital to HR. The email is damning and the sender is, unsurprisingly, anonymous. Its implications, if true, could be very costly and the optics from any publicity would undoubtedly be worse. And I'm only halfway through the thing. It reads:

FROM: Anonymous
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: OSHA Neglect at Mount Massive
SENT: October 4, 2012

I am writing to report security neglect at Mount Massive Charitable Hospital in Mount Massive, CO. Cost cutting and profit have taken precedence over safety in a manner which endangers staff and employees both. It is hard to imagine conditions continuing in such a state without attention from OSHA. As both physical and security measures have been stripped from facilities, staff have been required to resort to difficult measures to resolve any conflict within the hospital. Patients are regularly malnourished and poorly treated while many staff have developed a disturbing taste for brutality. Survivalism has overtaken security, it is a dangerous course.

Please advise.

"Jesus christ." Paul mutters. I don't reply but I'm inclined to agree. Survivalism over security? OSHA? The latter is particularly unnerving. The last thing anyone at Murkoff wants is meddling from the government. What would they find if they started looking around? I don't want to think about it.

"This is bad." Paul says, for the third time.
"Do you think its true?"
Paul shrugs, "Why would they send it if it wasn't? They're already screwed."
"If we don't get this figured out we all are."
​

...​

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[POV Paul Marion]​

"What is Murkoff's policy regarding complaints?" Alex asks as I come up for air. The pain in my eye is back and it's made talking more of a challenge with each passing minute,
"Offical Murkoff policy protects any employee filing a complaint." I explain, "Unofficial policy is extreme prejudice. Squeaky wheels get greased."
Alex raises his eyebrows at this, "You don't mean killed do you?"
"Not often. Shame and ruination usually do the trick." Often times whistleblowers killed themselves. Those cases, when they killed themselves, were the easier ones. At least they saved us the trouble.
"I'm sure they do."
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