Book Outlast: The Murkoff Account Chapter 5

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 5

[P.O.V. Pauline Glick]​

I'm standing in front of a massive Plexiglas chamber, one of many in a series of white, steel rimmed catacombs, which comprise the world underneath the hospital. There's a man in the chamber, a huge hulking mass of man at six and a half feet high with biceps the size of tree trunks and a chest as think as a grizzly's. However his wounds, both on the outside and in, mar his impressive physical appearance. He is hairless; the curly blond locks that adorned his head when I first encountered him at Spindletop have been cruelly shaved leaving red marks along his scalp. His is eyes, once a cold, winter blue are also changed; they are glazed over, unseeing and unknowing.

He does not notice me.

Blood from several small lacerations trickles down his chest and arms; it flows freely as he's caged, naked, like an animal. There are no furnishings in his prison save for a small hole at a corner of the chamber, the function of which I know without guessing. He has no privacy in the place and it's taken its toll on him. Whatever dignity he had, even as the vicious man that he was is long gone. As is, apparently, any pretense of civility, which is made apparent as, he bares his teeth and growls at me, flexing his muscles as he does so.

"I can smell you...” he growls, his breath coming in short gasps of air, "Little pig..."

I stare at him as he paces by my position in front of the Plexiglas and turns away. I cannot believe the man, no the beast, behind the Plexiglas is a former Murkoff employee, Chris Walker. At least that's what the name, faintly etched into the glass, reads. I'm taken aback as Walker suddenly raises his hands and, screaming, slams them into the Plexiglas. I watch, in a state of curiosity and fear, as Walker heaves in agony from the blow and steps back. Other than his fingerprints there's no trace of his assault on the glass.

"Little pig..." He groans. "Where are you?"

I cannot believe it's really him, a man I talked to and then shot a short time ago... he certainly looks a lot different without hair I think. What a pathetic sight. Murkoff certainly took care of him. I'm about to move on before a voice calls after me,

"Impressive am I right?" the voice asks.

It's a man. I barely have time to turn around before a tall, athletic, well dressed man with slicked back hair and a permanent smirk appears before me, "Jeremy Blaire, executive vice president of global project development." he offers his hand and shakes it vigorously, "And you're Pauline Glick, insurance mitigation department." he grins, "We meet at last."

"I don't remember being introduced." I say slowly, pulling away from the handshake.

Blaire flashes a predatory smile, "I try to stay well informed." he says.

He probably saw my name come up when I swiped my ID by the elevator I think. But I'm far less disturbed by Blaire's preemptive knowledge than I am by the man behind the Plexiglas. The litigation practically writes itself. No wonder someone threatened to call in the feds I think. But Blaire doesn't seem bothered. He doesn't even notice the creature right in front of him, assuming he ever did. Vice President of Murkoff Global was an important position, and great men like Blaire don't have time for trifles like ethics. That's what HR is for.

"Then I assume you know why I'm here?" I ask.

"Of course."

"There was a complaint..."

Blaire laughs, "I know Ms. Glick."

I glance at Walker who has seemingly recovered from his assault on the Plexiglas. He's reaching towards us, making a choking motion with his fingers as he does so. Well, I think, the psycho in him is certainly still there. That much, at least, is not a surprise.

"You guys have been doing some interesting work," I say, "When we dropped this guy off two months ago he was... human."

"Yes," Blaire says tritely, "I'm afraid 'human' isn't so precise a term as it used to be."

"You call this human?" I ask, as Walker, as if on cue, tears a thin strip of flesh from his nose. More blood.

"Mr. Walker is a murderer Ms. Glick." Blaire says, "A serial killer. You handled his case, naturally I'm sure you're familiar with his brutal nature?"

"Yes -"

"Yes, poor Walker. Such a brutal man." Blaire shakes his head in mock pity, “But brutal men need treatment Ms. Glick. Treatment for the body, and treatment for the soul,” he says running his hand down the glass. “difficult as it may be to accept it.”

“You’re saying?”

“Well treatment sometimes has to be applied in a… harsh manner.” Blaire continues, “Oh don’t get me wrong Ms. Glick, I’m not a sadist. But some patients are more reluctant than others to enter the program. Some of the patients are, shall we say, more problematic than others?” he smiles, “Our friend Walker here, is such a patient. He requires certain measures.”

“What kind of measures?” I ask tentatively.

“This little facility for one.” Blaire says, “And other things of course. Psychotherapy and all that.” He seems to sense my discomfort as he turns to me and strikes an even tone, “Come now Ms. Glick. Considering his crimes, wouldn’t you say he’s getting precisely the kind of treatment he deserves?”

“This is treatment?”

Blaire smiles, “Certainly.”

I look off into space and say nothing. It's not my place. "Mr. Blaire, there was a complaint -" I start, eager to move the conversation to more relevant territory.

"You know," Blaire interrupts, "I'm starting to wonder what you're doing down here," he paces to the edge of Walker's cage and turns back to me, "Ms. Glick."

There's the question. I knew he'd ask it sooner or later, I may have the clearance to be down here but I'm not supposed to know that. No one is supposed to know any more than necessary. Thankfully the lines in the sand aren't as clear for insurance mitigation. "I'm here to investigate -"

"All possible leads." Blaire finishes for me, "Yes, yes, I thought as much. So naturally you come here" he gestures grandly, "to our secret little abode?"

"There was no information in the logs, on the complaint." I say. "I thought it prudent to have a look around."

"So you did." Blaire says "And look at what we've created!" he says, turning to Walker, "A biological miracle! But there is more Ms. Glick, much more. In this facility we have created a being which is neither human nor beast, solid nor liquid. Not even a gas. Yet it is incredibly powerful! Ahhh," Blaire exhales, "it is our latest invention in biological security. And it's worth more to this company than you could possibly imagine." Blaire pauses and stands by the glass. A silence ensues, but it is short lived, "Tell me Ms. Glick," he says, "Where is your partner?"

"He's still in the administration bloc." I explain, "He doesn't have the clearance to be down here."

"Marion is new."

"Yes, yes he is." I say, "If I could," I ask, as tactfully as possible, "what is Murkoff's 'latest invention' in biological security?"

Blaire smiles and reaches out to me, "Would you like to see it Ms. Glick?"

I meet his gaze and put on a smile of my own, "Yes... yes I would."

...

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" a friendly voice says as we walk into the brightly office. A tall man with an untamed mane of dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and the face of a used car salesman appears before us. He's dressed in brown and purple with a great blue scarf, silk by the look of it, draped around the base of his neck. He reaches out and shakes each of our hands vigorously. "Rick's my name and biz dev is my game!" he says lamely, laughing at his own joke as he strides back to his desk. "I mean I am an executive." he adds, "Please have a seat!"

Paul and I are both taken back at his manner. Paul gives me a look and leans in, "Are you sure this is Trager?" he whispers.

I watch the man, 'Rick' as he calls himself, flop down in his chair and reach for one of the golf clubs at the side of his desk and start lazily twirling it in his hand. When we don't move he looks at us expectantly, "Well aren't you going to sit down? Come on! Have a seat! I just got those chairs," he gestures to the two leather-backed chairs with the club, "from Australia. They're made with real hide y'know!"

"Yes," I say, already irritated, "I think he's Trager."

"You sure about that Pauline?" Paul murmurs, "Maybe one of the patients escaped."

"Paul..."

Paul gives me a knowing look, "You never know."

"What are you guys waiting for?" Trager whines, "I don't have all day. I'm a busy man! I like to be efficient!"

Paul sighs, "Let's get this over with partner." I couldn't agree more.

We take our seats.

"That's better!" Trager beams and the golf club disappears, "All right! Down to business!" he says, looking from me to Paul and back again, "What can I do for you?"

"We're from insurance mitigation Mr. Trager." I say, handing him my card. Trager gives it a passing glance before looking back at me,

"Insurance mitigation?" he asks, eyes wide, "Oh-ho! I've heard of you! What do you want with me?"

"Well Mr. Trager we have a small problem..."

"A problem eh?" Trager laughs and leans back luxuriously in his chair, "Hey I'm happy to help. I'm a team player and I want you guys on team Rick." once again he smiles at us. It's a cheap smile. The kind of smile you could find at any used car lot back in the world, the kind to offer false promises and lure you in, hook, line, and sinker. I realize in an instant that this man isn't crazy. He's a sleazebag. The Richard Nixon poster on his ego wall, labeled I'M NOT A CROOK, I'M A LEADER, says as much. "You guys want some coffee? Or..." Trager leans across the table and winks at me, "some kind of wop drink?"

I wink back at him. I can play his game anytime, "No thanks." I say softly. Paul also declines although it's obvious from his haggard appearance that he's exhausted.

Trager laughs, "Ah well, I didn't think so. No wops this time! I can say that, by the way, since I'm Italian on my mother's side. Anyway," he again leans back in his swivel chair and twirls around, "I'm going to have some coffeeeeeeees!"

I watch, stone-faced as Trager spins until he finally stops and looks at us bemusedly. The man isn't even dizzy. "Denise!" Trager yells, "Denise!"

"Yes Mr. Trager?" a voice asks tiredly. Must be the maid, I think.

"Be a buddy and bring us some coffees!"

"Yes Mr. Trager."

Trager thanks Denise and properly situates himself at his desk, "Sorry about the spinning there. I used to do that all the time when I was a kid. Some things never get old..." he sighs, "Denise will be a few minutes with the coffees. She's such a doll."

"Thanks Mr. Trager," Paul says, "But this complaint -"

"Complaint?!" Trager exclaims, "There aren't any complaints around here!"

"Well," Paul says as patiently as he can, "we got one. I.T. is saying it's from your office."

"From here?"

"From here."

"Impossible!" Trager laughs, "Everyone loves working here. Isn't that right Denise?"

"Yes Mr. Trager." Denise replies, somewhere down the hall where she is, no doubt, making coffees. Something tells me she doesn't share Trager's enthusiasm for corporate, but that's none of my business. I always detested office politics. And wasting time...

"Somebody doesn't." I say and hand him a printed copy of the email.

Trager takes it without a word and reads. Within seconds a frown appears on his face and by the time he's finished he's sagging at his chair and tugging at his collar. Like a drowning man gasping for air.

"Quitters... I can't stand quitters..." he mutters, almost angrily, before he sits up and hands the email back to me. He doesn't seem perturbed. Even the smile has reappeared. Somehow we are back to square one, just like that. "Complaints, complaints, what's the big deal?" Trager says, "If someone doesn't want to be a buddy that's a job for someone else to take care of, not me. Only the best work for ol' Rick!"

"That's why we're here Mr. Trager." I say irritably. This act is getting old fast but Trager keeps going,

"And I'm glad you are!" he says, "It's always good to have some company, if y'know what I mean." he adds, glancing at me. I'm tempted to slap him before Paul, mercifully, jumps in,

"About the complaint, IT says the only employees with access to Deepweb would have to be from corporate. Nowhere else Mr. Trager."

Trager chuckles and shakes his head at this, "You guys know the origin of the word 'corporate'?" When neither of us responds he presses forward, "'corporate' from the Latin 'corpus', also the root of 'corpse', because a corporation is a body, and any weakness to that body is a wound that must be staunched..." he pauses, "cauterized if necessary."

"I couldn't agree more." I say.

"Well you certainly look like you know how to take care of your body."

I stare at Trager, mouth half open. I want to say something but nothing comes to mind. He's trying to flatter me but it just comes off as creepy. It's just another part of his game, I know. But it catches me off guard. I force a smile at him and study the floor. No one speaks for a moment before Paul, once again, bridges the gap. This time with a fit of coughing,

"Let's stay on topic..." he says, glancing nervously at me.

Trager seems to take the hint and backs off, for now. "Of course," he says, and just like that we're back to buisness, "Look this is corporate right? Our success or failure depends on how much money we have at any given time. How much we save in the budget. Money makes this place go 'round. Now let me ask you this," Trager says, laying his arms on the table in a diplomatic posture, "how would anyone make money sending vaguely threatening emails about my department performing poorly?" Trager shakes his head, "Not a cent."

Paul brings out his pen and paper. It's question time, "How much have you cut the security budget?" he asks.

"As I said, my job is minimizing expense. I'm sure you two can relate. And believe me, nothing is as expensive as security. I mean," Trager grins, "don't get me wrong; I never met-a-data I didn't like..."

Paul and I collectively groan at this awful attempt at humor but Trager doesn't notice. He's still talking, "but sometimes you gotta make cuts. Get rid of the 'dead wood, you know what I mean? I create efficiencies. That makes us all safer. Security changes with the times but money will always be money. And you can't have good security unless you're making good money."

Paul scribbles something down on his pad, "Interesting..." he says, as he leans over and shows me what he's written. It reads: This guy's as dirty as hobo****. I exchange a look with Paul but say nothing. I'm too busy trying not to laugh. Hobo****? Only Paul would think to come up with that. And he's not wrong. Trager, who is now examining himself in a handheld mirror, is far from suspicion. Maybe, I think, it would be worth investigating him personally... just to get a better idea of what's been going on around here. Trager wouldn't suspect a thing anyway, he's too busy playing playboy with me. He'd probably take any interest on my part as a compliment...

But before I can say anything the side door opens and a heavy-set woman dressed in maid's garmets and headdress enters, carrying a tray loaded with silverware. It's Denise with the coffees.

"Our coffees!" Trager beams, leaving the mirror, "Thank you dear."

As Denise sets the tray down at the edge of the desk I decide to make my move. "Mr. Trager, forgive me for being forward," I say, "but I've never been to this part of Colorado before and I'd love somebody to show me around."

Trager looks puzzled, "You're saying...?"

I smile, "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

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