Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Four ❖ Rut

It's morning. Sunlight streams in through the window, Mom must've come and opened my curtains for me. She's taken to doing that over the last summer. She says it's so I'm forced to wake up earlier - I fell into the teenage trap of sleeping into the afternoon.

I must be sick, though. The room's spinning and everything aches. I'm curled up on my side, hand tucked beneath my cheek like a pillow. The mattress is unusually hard underneath me, and for a while I wonder if I fell asleep on the floor while finishing homework.

Someone's shaking my shoulder. Just let me sleep, dammit.

My eyes flicker open. Even through the veil of fatigue it's obvious I'm not in my room at all, and the ache in my limbs brings everything flooding back. Drugged. I was drugged.

A figure looms over me, startling me at first, though I'm still too out of it to move. But he pats my arm gently and whispers, "Glad to see you awake."

I give a rasping cough in response. My throat feels like - what'd Miles say about the big guy's face? Something about a cheese grater. Yeah, that's what it feels like. He sits back, waiting patiently for me to finally work up the strength to move again.

I'm not sure how long it takes for my eyes to focus. I blink up at the ceiling, which is black with grime. It's too bright in here. My head pounds and a foul taste pervades my mouth. Is this what it feels like to be hungover?

My fingers probe the spot below my neck where I was injected. It aches badly, but there's no blood. All right, Carmen. Time to get up now.

I blink a few more times to try and clear the nasty, drug-induced fog, catching sight of something scribbled across the walls. Words, jumbled religious nonsense, and crosses. It looks like it's been scrawled in blood. I look back at Miles.

"I think this was the priest's room," he says. "How's your head?"

I wince. "Like I've been hit with a mallet," I reply, finally sitting up. My voice has a kind of raspy, high-pitched quality to it, like I've got the flu.

Miles helps me to my feet, careful to keep his arm out for support in case I get too wobbly. "Someone was nice enough to unlock the door, but I thought I'd wait for you to wake up before I left."

"Good of you," I say.

He smiles impishly. "I didn't think you'd be too happy if I left you here on your own."

My head swims and I pitch forward, catching myself on the cushioned walls. I brace my arms there, closing my eyes and breathing shallowly until the dizziness passes.

"Whoa there," Miles says, and I feel his hand on my arm.

I brush him away, mumbling, "I'm all right. Just a second."

It's a strange feeling, like standing up too fast after lying down for a long time. But it's gone just as quickly, sharpening the world. I wince, pushing myself back onto my feet.

"Don't push yourself too quickly," Miles says. "Don't know what was in that needle, no way of knowing what it's done to us."

"Very reassuring," I say with a scowl.

He shrugs, then his face crumples as if he's in pain. "On the plus side, I think we worked out that the Dr Wernicke from the file about Walker has a pretty big role in whatever happened here. Maybe we can find out some more about him while we look for a way out."

I follow him out into the corridor. Again, like before we ended up in the lobby, we're standing on a platform that overlooks a scene of misery. Several inmates patrol the area, and I wince as one takes to smashing his skull against one of the concrete pillars. When he turns away and begins his loop across the floor again, blood drips from his forehead. How has he not beaten himself into unconsciousness yet?