Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Seven ❖ Shadow In A Dream

Jesus Christ, can't we catch a break in this place?

Miles grabs my arm and half-drags me back to an abandoned bed against the wall, where we crouch, hearts pounding, perfectly still. I can hear Walker thudding his way downstairs toward us, muttering something about making the pain go away, but it's even more horrifying to peer over Miles' arm and watch him through the camera's viewfinder. Those eyes pierce through the darkness, pinpoints of light reflecting off the NV. As the rattle of chains grows closer I tense up, and Miles braces his arm against me. I can almost hear the trembling in his breath, and I hope he can't hear it in mine.

Walker must hear something, because he steps even closer to our flimsy hiding spot, stopping on the pile of bodies. Liquidized tissues squelch under his boots as he turns. "You're close, aren't you?" he rasps.

But after a moment he walks away again, murmuring under his breath about containment and security protocols. Miles watches him carefully for a few seconds that seem like they stretch into hours, then in the dim light of the viewfinder he indicates with his finger. Wait a moment. Then go right.

Walker disappears into the gloom, and I can't see him even as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Miles must judge it to be safe enough, because he gestures for me to stand and we make our move. Keeping one hand gripped on my arm and the other tight around the camera, he leads us to the right around the pile of bodies. A fly flickers up around my face and I lift a hand to slap it away.

I squint hard to make anything out in the darkness, and a dark shape eventually appears. He's just standing in one of the doorways, waiting. He doesn't flinch even as we skirt around the bodies and move toward the staircase, though we're not even a stone's-throw away from him now. He must know we're not dead – our bodies aren't in the sludgy heap I'm pretty sure he's been collecting like some kid's stamps.

We creep past with impressive gall. Barely three feet away from a seven-foot monstrosity with the power to rip peoples' heads off, and we're sneaking past like two kids who've just come home from a party they shouldn't have been at. I'd laugh if I didn't know what he was capable of. Not even my mom's wrath compares to that.

I scoot over an upturned bed, wincing as my foot catches on the railing. I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Walker turns our way, muttering to himself about little pigs, and resumes his casual stroll around the area. Miles tugs on my sleeve to keep going. We inch our way up the metal staircase, and I find myself wishing I'd chosen something less clumpy than my hiking boots. They're certainly sturdy, but the soles aren't designed for sneaking around. Every footfall sounds a million times louder in my head, even though I know I'm being almost silent as I make my way painstakingly after Miles.

Slow and steady, I tell myself. Quiet as a mouse.

I think we might be on a kind of balcony, a walkway for more prison cells. But I can't see anything clearly; I'm just groping blindly after Miles. My fingers catch on the chicken wire that stops anyone from jumping to their deaths from here, although I don't think we're high enough to do much more damage than a broken leg.

Someone's thrown a door across the catwalk in a shitty attempt at barricading it off. I'm not quite tall enough to step over it and have to vault it instead. The metal squeaks and shifts under my weight.

"Little pig!"

I don't even have time to realise what's going on before Miles yanks me into one of the side rooms. Slick metal of a locker, Miles crammed in beside me, the door pulled quietly shut. Walker's footsteps thunder along the walkway, but he didn't see us. Not yet. Then –

"You're close, aren't you?"

Miles gives a sharp intake of breath, recoiling, and though I can't see I hear Walker thumping into the room. I can't even bear to breathe, though I'm sure Walker couldn't hear it over his own ragged wheezing.