Chapter Text
“So, Park.”
Waylon looked over at Miles, scratching absently at his jaw. “I still don’t know what to tell you about it,” he said quietly.
They had been driving, mostly in silence, since they had left the last of the computer shops. There was food in the back of the car, computers and various things Waylon had needed to be shoved into the front with him, and a couple dozen extra knives that Miles had somehow charmed a sales manager into letting him buy all at once. He had said they were bachelor party favors or something, Waylon hadn’t been paying attention.
Now they were on their way to Port Arthur, Texas.
They didn’t know what they would find there but, somehow, they knew it was important.
“Well,” Miles checked the mirror quickly, flipping on the turn signal a little too aggressively to be casual. “You fucking gutted a man, Park. I didn’t even think you could squash a fly, let alone dig a man’s spine out through his stomach with a goddamned knife.”
“I have two of the most terrifying people I have ever met in my head right now,” Waylon aimed a narrow-eyed glare at him for a second. “One is Chris Walker, a military police officer who knew how to fight and keep himself alive. The other is Eddie Gluskin, known serial killer, whose favorite weapon was a knife. I should know that part, I encountered that in the asylum!” he heaved a breath out, nostrils flaring. After a second, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Miles.”
“…Were they the ones controlling you?”
Waylon nodded. “Yeah. Eddie had a plan, he was the one who got me to wake up and go help you out. I’m a little scared of the implications of him being able to just jump in and control me, but when things are necessary, I guess it just…Makes sense.”
“If any of this made sense,” Miles glanced at him. “Both of us would probably be dead right now, Park.”
“True,” Waylon nodded as he flipped open one of the laptops.
More silence passed the time for them, the miles ticking away as they drove towards their destination. Waylon was the one who broke it, nervously and with an almost sheepish look towards Miles.
“If you look deep enough,” Waylon flicked a finger at his laptop screen before jamming the first knuckle between his teeth. “You’ll be amazed at what you find. For example, Murkoff has a sister company.”
“A sister company?”
He nodded, biting down a little harder on his finger before removing it from his mouth and wiping it dry on his shirt. “A group called Umbrella, specializes in genetics.”
“Okay,” Miles nodded as he took a turn onto a side road, glancing at the GPS map for a second. “So Murkoff has plenty of ways to do nasty shit to a whole bunch of people, good to know. What about Umbrella?”
“Chris was telling me a little bit about them,” Waylon turned to look out the window and watch the scenery pass them by in the quick-motion way it always did when you were in a car. “An experiment that involved a set of four. Super soldiers of some kind, the military trying to create soldiers that didn’t need as much sleep or supplies. I think Murkoff and Umbrella are trying to rule the world – megalomaniacs that they are.”
“Shit, so we’re dealing with super soldiers?”
“I don’t think so,” Waylon turned back to look at him. “The files I can find are telling me that the four went missing. Back in two-thousand-and-nine. Can’t find much else on them, it looks like someone wiped the system. If I had my hands on the computer the files came from, I could find out more, but that won’t happen until I’m actually in Murkoff’s headquarters.”
Miles nodded again and frowned, turning the wheel and slowing the car down. “This is it,” he muttered, throwing it into park. “And there is nothing here.”
He was right.
The house that Eddie Gluskin had grown up in was gone.
They both got out of the car and Miles sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. “So this is where the Gluskin house is supposed to be,” he turned to Waylon. “Any ideas as to what to do next?”
Waylon was standing with his hands on the car door, holding his cane awkwardly over one elbow as he stared at the vacant lot.
“There has to be something,” he muttered.
Miles walked a little closer, making a face before whistling tunelessly. “You sure about that, Park?”
Waylon rolled his eyes and Miles laughed a little, despite the panic starting to build in his gut. At the corner of his vision, he could see faint gray-green wisps of smoke and the frantic stretch of claws wanting to tear apart the world.
“The house on the corner’s been gone for at least twenty years,” came the thick drawl of a voice from behind them. When they both turned, it was to see an old woman with her hands on her hips. “You boys ain’t from around here, right? I know it just from lookin’ at ya. C’mon, I’ll get the two of you some tea.”
She gestured towards a house that was on one side of the now-empty lot Eddie Gluskin’s childhood home had been in. On the porch were four wicker chairs and she motioned for them to sit down. “Sweet tea in jus’ a second, just need to go get it.” She smiled at them before heading inside, coming out a few minutes later with a tray of tea and cookies. “What’re you looking for the Gluskin house for?”
“Uh…Ma’am?” Miles did his best to look confused and shocked, taking a cup of tea almost politely.
“Heard you mention the name earlier, don’t try and kid me. These old ears still hear plenty,” she handed a cup to Waylon as well, balancing the tray of cookies on a small table that sat between them. “The Gluskin family’s been gone for ages.”
“Do you know what happened to them?” Waylon leaned forward, feeling something driving him to ask, to know, to find out. “We can’t find any record of it anywhere.”
The old woman smiled. “My name’s Tess Grange. I’ve lived here since before most of the people in this neighborhood. The Gluskins…Now, it’s just such a sad story. The son ran off, according to his father, but I hear things when people think I don’t. He ran the poor boy off, though I never knew why or how. Little Eddie just packed his things in a couple of bags and took off in his truck one night.”
“Just…Off he went?” Miles frowned, glancing at Waylon. “I’m Miles, by the way. That’s Waylon.”
“Off he went,” Tess nodded, clasping both her hands around her glass. “His mother, poor dear, god rest her soul, passed away a couple of years later. Harold, his father, drank himself stupid and stumbled out into the road one night. Harold’s brother, Frank, put a bullet in his own head a year later.”
Waylon was trembling as she started talking about the entire family.
The only one Eddie cared about was his mother.
“What happened to his mother?”
“Oh, Charlotte was a good person. Kind, liked to make sure people were okay, quiet though. Even before her marriage to Harold, she was always so soft-spoken, quiet about everything. Wouldn’t fight back to save her own life but would give you the clothes off her back.” Tess shook her head. “Supposedly, she fell down the stairs and broke her neck at the bottom. Considering what sort of monster Harold was found to be from the photos in Frank’s house after he shot himself, I’ve never believed a word of that. Tried to get the police to look back into her death for a while, nothing came of it.”
With his hands shaking, Waylon leaned closer and smiled at her. “Thank you for telling us about them, it must be hard for you.”
“Old stories, now. Gluskin family is gone, pretty sure I’m one of the only ones that still remembers them,” Tess leaned forward and patted his cheek in a motherly sort of way. “Bless your heart, darling.”
That was it.
Waylon nearly burst out laughing, managed to keep it in by the skin of his teeth. Eddie Gluskin was a Texan, even as he portrayed himself as a British Gentleman, and it showed through in some of his mannerisms and the way he spoke. Even with an affectation of a British accent, he still had a Southern-sounding drawl to his voice.
He didn’t know why it was so funny to him. He suspected it actually wasn’t, but Chris Walker had a stranger sense of humor than Waylon did.
Miles looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Hey Tess, did anyone ever come to the house before us? Looking for something left behind by the Gluskins?”
“Matter of fact, some people did. Couple of suits, stood out like sore thumbs in this neighborhood. Said they were government of some kind, fake badges. Good fake badges, but still fake. I chased ‘em off quick enough.” Tess grinned, a couple of gold teeth flashing in her smile. It was the sort of smile one would see on an alligator just as it was about to chew into you. “Sat on my porch with a shotgun for a few days. Noticed them digging in the back for a bit, managed to just about shoot off the ear of the jackass who’d tried to threaten me. Saw their faces, for all the good it did me.”
“Actual rounds or what?” Miles laughed a little, taking a sip of his tea.
“Buckshot. Would’a hurt more if I got ‘em in the chest and they had to walk away from it. Figured it’d make enough of a warning shot.”
Miles set down his glass and nearly choked on the tea he was trying to swallow. “Tess, you might be my new favorite person.” He cleared his throat, a hand to his chest as he got the liquid down. “Any idea what they were digging for?”
“Nah,” Tess stood up slowly, looking at Waylon. “You want to know where they were digging.”
“Yes,” Waylon nodded, looking up at her.
“Come on then,” she headed back down the porch and waved for them to follow. Once they were near the side of her house, she snagged a shovel from where it was leaned against the wall. “I remember clear as day. Looked like they weren’t digging something up but burying something. Figured someone would come looking one day.”
She laughed a little. “And here you two are.”
“Yeah,” Miles nodded, hands in his pockets. “Did you ever hear of a corporation called Murkoff, Tess?”
“Those bastards,” Tess stopped, turning to look at him. “They tried to get me to sell my house, tried to get me declared incompetent and unable to manage my own affairs. I may be eighty-three but I can still make my way in this world, don’t you be mistaken! Tried to buy the whole damn neighborhood but I got everyone good and fired up and we chased ‘em out.” She tapped the shovel into the ground, stamping her foot on the back of it to sink it into the dry earth. “That who the suits were?”
Waylon nodded. “In all likelihood.”
“Hell with ‘em,” Tess turned her head and spat at the ground, offering the handle of the shovel to Miles. “Here, you’re the stronger of the two of you.”
“Why me?” Miles put on a shocked expression.
“Because your friend over here,” she patted Waylon’s shoulder, careful not to knock him off his footing or make him sway on his cane. “Looks like I could break him over my knee if I wanted to. Never you mind that I’m an old lady, I still got plenty of fight in me yet. And Waylon looks like he could barely punch his way out of a paper bag unless he got good and angry.” She took Miles’ hand and wrapped it around the shovel. “Go on, shouldn’t be too deep.”
With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Miles started digging.
Tess was right: it was not deep at all.
Within two feet of the surface, the tip of the shovel tapped against something and Miles kneeled down to pull it out. It was a metal crate, heavy for its size, and he had to yank hard to get it out of the ground. He set it on the ground between Waylon’s feet and pulled out his pocket tool. “This had got some locks on it,” he muttered, pulling out the screwdriver and slipping it into one of them. It took a few minutes, but he eventually heard the popping noise of it releasing and went to work on the other one. He soon had it open and, for the first time he could remember, Miles balked from investigating further.
On top of the contents of the crate was a plastic bag, sealed, with photos of a young boy being held against the chest of an older man. The boy wasn’t looking at the camera but the man was, both of them stripped down to almost no clothing at all.
The kid couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.
Miles felt a little like he was going to be sick. Glancing up at Waylon, he could tell that the programmer was feeling the same way.
Tess sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the photographs. “If that man was still alive,” she hissed the words out. “I’d take it into my own hands to make sure he wasn’t anymore.”
Waylon kneeled down and pulled the bag of photographs out, flipping them over so that they wouldn’t have to look at them. “Take a deep breath,” he whispered. “We need to get through this.”
With hands that were trembling just the slightest bit, Waylon began digging through everything that was in the box. There were USBs, an external hard drive, a couple more bags of photos, and several folders. The photos showed an older but obviously the same person version of the boy from the first set. These ones, however, were taken from far away, like someone had been watching him.
The reports confirmed it.
“Eddie Gluskin was steered towards living in a town about a nine-hour drive from here,” Waylon reported after a few minutes of reading. “Something about an influencing machine? Once he lived there, the report says they monitored him and cultivated the emotional outbursts.”
“What does that mean?” Tess leaned in to read over his shoulder. “What happened to Eddie?”
“They…” Waylon swallowed, his eyes wide. “They used a machine and a process they had patented to alter his brain functions. Not long after that, his first victim showed up.” He glanced up at Tess, guilt painted across his face. “Eddie Gluskin became known as a murderer and Murkoff was able to claim him in an attempt to ‘fix’ him.”
Tess swore in a combination of words that both impressed and concerned Miles.
“And,” Miles looked back at Waylon as the other man continued. “What did you say his father’s brother’s name was, again?”
“Frank,” Tess looked livid and Miles found himself liking her even more. Hardy spirit, someone he would gladly choose to have on his side. “Frank Gluskin. Don’t tell me that son’uva’bitch was even more involved in this.”
“Frank Gluskin worked for Murkoff,” Waylon said it quietly, like he was afraid of saying it any louder. “He was given the job of trying to create a viable host for the Walrider project. He chose his own,” Waylon gasped a little, tears building up in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. “His chose his own goddamned nephew.”
Tess’s hands curled into fists. “You boys are going after them, ain’t you.”
“Yes ma’am,” Miles nodded, reaching out to put a hand on Waylon’s shoulder. “We figured it was our duty after what they did to us and what they plan on doing to others.”
“Good,” Tess straightened her spine out and Miles felt a small splash of actual fear at the anger in her eyes. “Burn them down. Make sure everyone knows what in the hell they been doing.” She grinned and it was a little feral. “Charlotte and I were as good of friends as we could be, given the circumstances. Eddie was practically my son, would have adopted him if I could have.” She pointed a finger, jabbing it at Miles. “Keep Waylon alive, tear their shit down.”
Miles nodded, saluting her. “Mind if I ask what you did for a living?”
“Military officer and then a reporter,” Tess cackled. “Ain’t never been one for bein’ quiet and peaceful when it comes to takin’ the abuse of others.”
“You are a goddamned hellion,” Miles pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Can I have your number so that we can call you and tell you what happened?” he handed it off to her when she nodded and waited until she had punched it in. “Alright, Park. Off the ground, things to do.”
Waylon looked up at him, eyes still bleary and tear-filled.
Hauling him off the ground, Miles took him back to the car and tucked him into his seat, settling the cane in with him.
Before he could get in as well, Tess was back at his side with a bag of something. “You boys have fun ruining their lives,” she told him with a shark-like grin. “Call me and let me know you’re still alive in the end, a’right?”
He took the bag and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
With that, he got back into the car and started it up, driving until Tess was a speck in the rearview mirror. “Park?” he looked at his companion. “Go to sleep and talk to them for a bit. Got the feeling you need to.”
The photos practically burned a hole in the bag that Tess had handed to him, all of the reports and tech left behind by Murkoff in the place it had all started in there with them.
Waylon nodded and let his head drop to his chest.
When Waylon looked around, the room was as familiar as it usually was.
Chris stood off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, nodding in greeting when Waylon looked at him. “That was an interesting find,” he muttered. “Gluskin will be along in a minute. He’s trying to calm down enough to see you.”
“Alright,” Waylon frowned.
It felt like an eternity later that Eddie stormed into the room, running his hands over his hair in an attempt to push it back into some semblance of normal. “Waylon,” he greeted curtly.
“Eddie,” Waylon studied him for a second. “About today-”
It was, it seemed, the wrong way to broach the subject. Eddie’s eyes immediately went dark and narrowed.
“God DAMNIT!” Eddie snarled as he gripped the edge of the ever-familiar table, flipping it easily across the room. “That son-of-a-bitch deserves everything he ever got! Death and torment and pain for what he did to us! My father should never have had a child, he should never have had a wife, he should never have been born!”
Chris stood, unimpressed and silent, against the wall, one arm stretched out to keep Waylon back.
Eddie’s breathing was hurried, like he was running through the asylum once more. His shoulders were heaving, his body trembling with the anger coursing through him. “He used to beat her,” he said, his voice just as shaken as the rest of him. “He beat my mother and I picked up only the worst from him.” For the first time since Waylon had met him, the affectation of a British accent was gone. There was a deeply entrenched Southern twang to his voice, the words slurred a little. “Beat me too, did things that…”
He snarled wordlessly, curling his hand into a fist and slamming it into the wall. The room seemed to shake with the movement and Waylon winced.
After a few moments, the revelation about his childhood silenced, Eddie turned to Waylon. His eyes still held the anger, but it wasn’t directed at the smaller man. “Waylon,” he said curtly, still sounding like how he was raised. “Keep your knife on you at all times. There are monsters out there in that world,” he crossed the room to Waylon, an echo of the knife in his hand. He shoved it, handle-first, into Waylon’s grip. “There is the Walrider and then there are people like the ones who did this to us. The real monster is not the one manipulated into a host and countless people killed for. Keep your knife,” he paused, searching Waylon’s face. “On you. At. All. Times.”
“Finally,” Chris grunted. “Something we can agree on.”
Waylon took the knife from Eddie and tucked it away before he took his hands in his own and ran his thumbs over the backs of them. “Eddie?” he ducked down a little and looked up, trying to meet the man’s eyes. “Eddie, look at me.” He softened his voice, pulling his mouth into a softer shape so that he didn’t seem any sort of threatening. “Eddie…”
Eddie’s eyes, cornflower blue and wider than he had ever seen them, finally stared back at him.
He was a handsome man. If he had ever gotten the chance to live a normal life and be happy, without everything that had been stacked against him from the start, he likely would have made someone very happy. His lips were full and made for smiling, the sort of face that would have looked better always being happy. With most of his looks and coloring from his mother, he was quite stunning, even being in his fifties. Strong cheekbones and good genetics.
“The monsters came after me first,” Eddie whispered. “I pray that they do not find you before you find them. Destroy them, Waylon. Make them regret ever coming after the ones who couldn’t fight back until it was too late.”
Waylon nodded. “Chris, do you mind giving us a few minutes alone?”
The expression on Chris’s face seemed to ask him if he was sure, but when Waylon nodded, the man left the room with no argument. “Eddie?” Waylon caught his attention again, putting his hands on the sides of his face. “Eddie, look at me.”
Eddie took a deep breath and nodded, letting himself relax under Waylon’s hands. “Darling,” he muttered.
“It was not your fault,” Waylon whispered. “You went through some things and people pushed you into directions I don’t think you would have gone if they hadn’t. The reports we found today mentioned something about behavior modification.”
“I was still so angry all the time,” Eddie hissed out the words, spat them like poison. “I gained only the worst from my father, let myself become so bound by my anger that I…I would have hurt people anyway.”
Waylon pushed him, gently and slowly, against the wall and into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, he somehow ended up in Eddie’s lap.
He didn’t move.
“If you had been given a chance, maybe some actual therapy, and a life where you were not being monitored as a potential host,” Waylon reached up and smoothed out the man’s hair. “Then I suspect that things would have turned out so much different. Murkoff was looking for viable hosts, even if they had to make them themselves. They have been doing this shit for a long, long time, Eddie.”
There was a second of Eddie remaining tensed and wound-tight, like he was going to push Waylon off and start running.
The moment passed.
Eddie pressed his face against Waylon’s shoulder and started sobbing. His shoulders shook and his hands came up to clench around Waylon’s back, nails digging in. It hurt, a little, but Waylon decided he was going to sit right where he was until Eddie didn’t need him to be there anymore.
Murkoff was going to burn, he thought as he held Eddie close, one hand on the back of his head.
For everything they had done.