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Well, damn.
As if his life couldn’t get any worse, he spots a man standing by his Jeep. He’s dressed in what appears to be the same jumpsuit as all of the other patients, but there’s something about him that Miles just can’t place. Perhaps it’s the fearful expression on his face or the faint look of recognition that flickers across his features the moment they lock eyes.
“Miles… Upshur?”
He finds himself staring into those dark eyes, wide in shock and horror at the sight of the fresh blood and guts splattered all over his clothes. The other man is leaning heavily on one leg and Miles can see the splotch of red that soaks through the pant leg of the other.
It’s another survivor, he knows.
“Give me the damn keys,” He mutters. “And get in the passenger’s seat.”
The man doesn’t argue as he drops the keys into Miles’s waiting hand and hobbles to the other side of the Jeep. With all of the terrible things that had already occurred, he really doesn't need someone crashing his car too.
As they speed away from the looming stature of the asylum, Miles finds out more about the man than he would have liked to. He learns that his name is Waylon Park, that he’s married and that he was some sort of IT guy at Mount Massive until everything went to shit with the email he sent.
They had been on the road for at least a few hours when Waylon suddenly breaks down and begins to sob, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
His hands tighten around the steering wheel. Had the hysteria finally settled in? He vaguely wonders if it’s only a matter of time until he too burst into tears from the reality of the whole fucking ordeal. But the calm is almost unnerving. He can feel the static humming in his blood as the Walrider continues to circulate through every pore in his body.
Waylon wheezes, frantically wiping away the tears with the back of a bruised and battered hand.
“I’m sorry. It– It really has been the shittiest night, huh?” He lets a broken laugh escape. It’s a hollow sound that hangs in the claustrophobic space of the car.
“Yeah,” Miles inhales. “Yeah, it really has been.”
They sit in silence as the forests and mountains of remote Colorado continue to streak by in a blur of green and brown. He drives until he’s sure that the asylum is far enough behind them that he can’t feel the oppressive air from within its walls anymore.
The sky is growing dark by the time he finally pulls into the parking lot of a motel just off the highway. There are only a few other cars parked and the building itself is a mustard yellow color, paint flaking off in some places, but otherwise normal-looking. The flashy neon signs and lingering scent of cigarette smoke in the air is almost comforting to him as they make their way across the lot.
Under the glare of the fluorescent motel lights, Waylon looks even more pallid with his skin tinged a sickly green. He shifts the weight off his injured leg uncomfortably and casts a nervous glance at the windows overlooking the wilderness. Miles half expects a crazed doctor to come charging out of the woods, bone shears swinging in his hand.
“You should have waited in the Jeep.” Miles murmurs, low enough so that only Waylon could hear him before sending a glance towards the front desk. The receptionist doesn’t bother looking up at the two of them as they approach, but every movement they make sets him on edge.
Waylon offers him a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m fine.” He says through gritted teeth when he’s clearly not fine. How could he be fine with a deep puncture wound through his ankle that had been exposed to all sorts of bacteria in the filth and blood? With the trauma he had gone through while running for his life?
You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. Not with me. He wants to say. But he doesn’t.
Even with these thoughts grating at his mind, Miles holds his tongue.
With fingers — or what was left of them, anyway — gripped around their room key, he wordlessly leads them back outside to the row of doors facing the parking lot.
The motel room is dingy with faded wallpaper peeling away in large strips and a single bed in the center of the space. The floral-patterned curtains are drawn shut and he can see faint stains on the armchair sitting in the corner. But even with its moth-eaten, stained furniture and thick layer of dust caked across every surface, it feels like a breath of fresh air. He’d take anything over the suffocating ambience of the asylum.
“You can have the bed.” Miles says, not because he’s trying to be nice, but because he’s too tired to argue with him tonight. Too tired to deal with a back-and-forth conversation that could go on for god knows how long.
“I don’t mind sharing.” Waylon mumbles softly and Miles snorts.
He watches as Waylon makes his way to the bathroom with the bag of medical supplies they’d picked up from a gas station convenience store a few miles back. He hears the click of a lock and the squeak of a rusty tap turning. If he listens closely, he thinks that he can make out the sounds of sobbing just barely muffled by the running water.
By the time Waylon emerges from the bathroom, Miles is already in bed with his back flat against the stiff mattress. He doesn’t say anything as the other man lifts back the covers on the opposite side and climbs in.
They lie there in the flickering golden glow of the bedside lamp because neither of them can stand another moment in the darkness. Not after everything that had happened just a few hours prior.
Miles stares up at the ceiling, lying only inches away from where Waylon is curled up. The static crackling in his head has gotten even louder now that the room is silent. No background chatter from some news program or midnight soap opera on the TV. Just the sound of the ceiling fan whirling steadily overhead and his own thoughts. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that he’s in for a long sleepless night.
Hesitantly, he reaches across the gap between them to take Waylon’s hand.
He thinks about all of the shit he’s experienced last night — the not-quite hallucinations of nanite machines and the steady buzzing in his veins and the hazy Rorschach tests lingering at the edges of his vision. It's a strange feeling that gnaws at his brain. He's not sure if he wants to kiss the man or kill him for sending that damn email. He’s not sure if he’s even alive anymore. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.
But the hand that clasps his own feels solid.
It feels real.