Miles Upshur 1

Miles Upshur 1

A Chapter by Sarah J Dhue

My Outlast (and Outlast: Whistleblower) fan-fiction. I wrote it before playing Outlast 2. I want to share it with other Outlast fans.


     My vision is hazy.  What the hell?  How am I still alive?  Everything hurts… my leg.  My ribs.  My fingers �" god, I just know they’re getting infected.  F*****g Trager and his unsanitary surgical tools.  If I can just drag myself to the delivery exit, maybe I could find a truck or a forklift, and get the hell off this mountain.  I really- I really don’t know if I can make it, I can barely keep myself standing.  My leg is shot, it’s basically dead weight.

     I can see the doors.  The doors, they’re opening.  Wernicke?  What the hell is he doing- why are there guards with him- the guards, they’re raising their guns.


     Pain, ripping through me.  F**k, what did I ever do to deserve this, I’m just a freelance journalist, not a f*****g felon.  My face comes in contact with the floor, hits it hard.  There’s blood in my eyes; it burns.

     Gott im Himmel.  You have become the host.” I hear Wernicke say, true terror in his voice.

     Just my luck.  That’s how I’m alive.  The Walrider.  It couldn’t choose someone else!?  I should have just forgotten about Billy and gotten the hell out of here when I had the chance.  My mouth tastes like copper �" blood is everywhere, spreading across the floor, causing my face to stick.  So much for this jacket…  So much for anything.  Whoever sent me the tip for this exposé, I hope you get what you deserve for subjecting me to this - at least a small dose of the Hell you’ve put me through.  You said Murkoff was hurting its patients and going too deep into ‘dream therapy.’  You never mentioned the Walrider, or- wait, what is happening?  All my muscles, they’re cramping all at once, so tense �" F**K!  I honestly didn’t know I could be in more pain than I already was in.

     Why are the guards screaming?  They’re firing their guns again, just not at me this time.  The sound of visceral tearing puts an end to the gunfire and I hear someone choking �" no, gurgling is a better word for it.  My muscles are finally going slack as the cramps release.  Do I dare move?  Oddly enough, I feel a little better.  I put both my palms flat on the floor and push myself up.  The guards �" what remains of them �" are a bloody mess strewn about the icy lab.  I can see holes in the door as well as the ice where bullets were fired aimlessly.  The Walrider got them �" like the rest of the b******s I found down here.  Did… did I make it do that?

     Wernicke is in his wheelchair, a few blood-rimmed holes in his torso from the blind shooting, struggling to breathe and hold his head up.  I finish standing up and feel lightheaded.  I take a few wobbly steps toward Wernicke.

     “B-B-B-Billy,” he sputters, “is-is he d-d-”

     “Dead?”  I say, coughing on the blood still lining the inside of my throat.



     “I th-think I… knew that,” he chuckles in agonizing exasperation.  “It has a n-new host-t now… you.”  He feebly raises his index finger to point at me.  “You can’t let it… g-get ou-out.”  As he is speaking, I see the Walrider materializing behind him.  “Pl-please.”

     I make direct eye contact with the Rorschach-faced Walrider as it brings its hands down around the sides of Wernicke’s head, gripping his skull, and pulling up hard and to the left.  A sick crack echoes off the ice as the Walrider snaps Wernicke’s brittle neck.  I steal a glance at the handicapped corpse, then look back at the Walrider.  We both want the same thing: to get the hell outta here.

     “No-can-do, Wernicke,” I say as I pass the wheelchair and head for the delivery exit.  Wait �" I can’t go that way.  My legs, they’re being pulled, back towards the elevator.  Oh no Walrider, I’m not going back up there.  I’ve had enough of that freak show.

Not that it seems like I have a choice.  I walk past all the remains of guards and scientists.  Pass the vent, still lined with shredded Chris-meat.  At least I won’t have him chasing me, or have Father Martin injecting me with unknown substances or Trager taking any more of my appendages.  I climb into the elevator and press the Ground Floor button, then sit down in the corner as the doors close.  It may be a hard floor, but it feels good to sit down for just a moment.


The elevator doors open and I can see the front exit.  The doors are hanging wide open.  And I can see a man in a suit… he has a knife!  He is about to stab some poor tortured patient…  F****r, I just know he is somehow responsible for some of the s**t going on here at Murkoff.  All my muscles tense again and I see the Walrider launch itself from the elevator.

The man in the suit can see it and he can’t do s**t about it.  It picks him up, flinging him around like a ragdoll, much like it did to me when I unplugged Billy.  “Grah!  What the fu- Urk!  Oh, God, oh Christ in Heaven, how did it get out…”  He screams and suddenly he is all over the place, his blood and guts raining down on the guy he was trying to stab.

I lean my head back and close my eyes.  I think about my office back at home, a nice hot black cup of coffee.

My Jeep.

My eyes come open.  Of course.  My Jeep, I left it parked out front.  I stand up and take a few labored steps forward.  I just want to lie down and sleep for days.  But this isn’t the time or the place.

I notice the patient is gone, smears in the bloody puddle from where he pushed himself up with his hands to get up and run.  The bloody footprints lead out the door…

“No,” I say aloud, my eyes widening as I attempt to speed up.  F**k me, my keys.  I left my f*****g keys in the Jeep!  I step out the door and see the patient climbing into my Jeep.

Whistleblower,” a voice hisses inside my head.

“What?  What the f**k?”  I say back.

He is the Whistleblower.

And suddenly, I know what he means.  He is the one.  He is no patient.  He is the whistleblowing f**k that dragged me out here in the first place.  And now he is stealing my Jeep.  I focus my attention on the Jeep, the driver in particular.  If I focus hard enough, I should be able to control the Walrider.  Make it hurt him.  I feel it wants to hurt him too, as I think it is who spoke in my mind.

The Jeep shifts into Reverse and whips around, then tears down the side of the mountain.  I will get you, Whistleblower.  I will get you if it is the last thing I do.




A few weeks later…

     Tweedly deedly dee.  Tweedly deedly dee, tweedly deedly dee.  Tweedly deedly dee, tweedly deedly dee.  Tweedly deedly dee.  Tweet tweet.  Tweet tweet.

     I’m standing in front of the mirror of my small apartment bathroom, combing my short black hair back, trying to make sure my part is perfect.  I set down my comb and massage the nubs where my right index and left ring fingers used to be.  The bandages just came off a yesterday and the dry skin still makes them itch.  Surprisingly enough, if there was any infection, it was very mild.  I think that has something to do with the Walrider.

     He rocks in the tree tops all day long.  Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singin’ his song.  All the little birds on Jaybird Street, love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet.  Rockin' robin. Rock, rock, rockin' robin.  Blow rockin' robin ‘cause we're really gonna rock tonight.

     Since I broke out of Murkoff, I have hidden out in my apartment.  Aside from paying bills, I have avoided all contact with the outside world.  They aren’t ready.  I’m not ready.  The Walrider is strong, whispers static into my head, haunts my dreams.  We only seem to share one common goal: killing the Whistleblower.  And I am not sure if even that desire is my own, or just my mind being tainted by the Walrider.

     Every little swallow, every chick-a-dee.  Every little bird in the tall oak tree.  The wise old owl, the big black crow.  Flappin' their wings singing go bird go.

     But the trail has run cold.  For now.  I have a feeling that what the Walrider wants, the Walrider gets.  That is why going outside scares me… why I couldn’t go to the hospital with my injuries �" God knows what would have shown up on the X-Rays.  I mean, I have a demonic swarm of nano-bots that has taken up residence inside me!

    Rockin' robin.  Rock, rock, rockin' robin.  Blow rockin' robin 'cause we're really gonna rock tonight.

     I pick up my toothpaste and squirt it onto my toothbrush.  For a guy with only eight fingers, I have a surprising amount of dexterity.  No more chickening out.  Today is the day.  I look at myself closely in the mirror as I scrub my teeth.  I have dark bags under my eyes from sleepless nights.  My cheeks are sunken and are those… wrinkles?  Damn, I look like I’ve aged ten years.  Guess that’s what trauma does to you.

     Pretty little raven at the bird-band stand.  Told them how to do the bop and it was grand.  They started going steady and bless my soul.  He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole.  He rocks in the tree tops all day long.  Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singin’ his song.  All the little birds on Jaybird Street.  Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet.  Rockin' robin.  Rock rock, rockin' robin.  Blow rockin' robin ‘cause we're really gonna rock tonight.

     I pull on a jacket �" denim, not tan; I miss that jacket �" and wince, my ribs still hurt.  I’m not sure which hurts more: my fractured ribs or the many bullet holes.  Granted, they are healing, but even at this expedited rate, they can’t heal fast enough.

     Rockin' robin.  Rock rock, rockin' robin.  Blow rockin' robin 'cause we're really gonna rock tonight.  Tweedly deedly dee.  Tweedly deedly dee, tweedly deedly dee.  Tweedly deedly dee, tweedly deedly dee-

     “Do you mind shutting off that racket, I’m trying to think!”  I snap out loud and the radio clicks off.  Not sure if I or he did that.  Same thing I guess.  I take a deep breath.  I just have to try and appear normal.  Do normal stuff… what is that again?  Never mind, I’ll just buy a magazine and pack of cigarettes from the convenience store down the street.  I take a few steps forward and grip my apartment door knob.  My hand looks odd wrapped around the knob without an index finger �" something I’m sure I’ll get used to.

     I twist the knob and pull the door open.  The sunlight hits me in the eyes; gah, wasn’t ready for that.  I take a few steps outside, hear the pavement under my feet.  Jeez, when did going outside become so foreign?  Static starts ringing in my ears, fizzing up in my brain like a shaken up soda.

     “Shut up,” I hiss and it subsides, for now.  I try to remember which way it is to the convenience store and I think I should go right.  I start heading in that direction.  I feel exposed, like everyone can see what is wrong with me.  Well, I mean, they can see my two missing fingers �" that could make for an interesting conversation starter.  Not to mention that I look like s**t.

     ‘Lancet’s Corner.’  I see the sign for the convenience store.  As I walk inside, I grab the first magazine I see and then head for the cigarette cabinet.  F**k, what brand do I even smoke?  I can’t remember.  I find that there is a lot I can’t seem to remember these days.  I squint my eyes closed, trying to remember.  F**k it, I’ll just go with Marlboro.  I step up to the counter to order when some guy bumps into me.

     “Hey man, watch where you’re going!”  He shouts.  Something about his beefcake appearance reminds me of Chris Walker, the large f**k who chased me all through Mount Massive just to be shredded in an air vent.  I hear the static starting deep in my brain.  I try to force a smile.

     “Sorry, I uh, didn’t see you there.”  The static is getting louder and I clench my jaw, trying to regulate my breathing and make it go away like I do at home.  But it isn’t working.

     “Obviously, chump,” he grunts, pushing me back.  Pain shoots through my chest.  Sudden rage begins to bubble up inside.

     “Hey come on man, leave me alone.”  I say, my voice rising in volume.  I’m losing control.  I try to pull back.

     “Pffft, leave you alone, I was the one trying to shop in peace when you decided to traipse in front of me.  What, you think the world revolves around you?  You loony or something?”


     The word sets something off inside, something I can’t control.  I glare at the man; he hasn’t see ‘loony.’  “I said: Leave.  Me.  Alone.”  The clerk behind the counter is staring at me.  A black fog comes into my line of vision; he must have seen it before I did.  Like saying sic ‘em to a dog, the fog surrounds the guy, then materializes into a humanoid entity and grabs his ribs and lifts him up off the ground.  Oh God, I can’t stop it now.  The guy is screaming, oh f**k, what have I done!?  His blood is everywhere; he is everywhere.

I turn toward the cash register to steal a glance at the clerk when I notice something far worse.  I can see myself in the security monitor behind him.  All my features have gone dark: the shadows of my face emphasized, my eyes two dark black empty pools, my hair even looks darker.  I look down at my hands, breathing hard.  Everyone is staring, most of them splattered in what remains of Mister Tough Guy.  I knew I wasn’t ready.  I knew I wasn’t ready and I still decided to go out into the world.

I turn and run out of the shop without saying a word; I really hope that no one got a good look at me.  That’s all I need, the cops banging down my door, more body bags with my name stamped on them, having to relocate.  No thank you, I like my little apartment just fine.

I finally see my building, run up the stairs two at a time and throw open the door, slam it shut behind me, and lock it.  I peel off my bloody clothes �" brilliant, another jacket ruined �" and throw them into the bathtub for now.  I sit down on my couch �" jeez, the fabric is itchy against my bare a*s �" and reach for the remote to flip on the TV �" something to occupy my mind.

‘Breaking News’ flashes across the screen, then cuts to a woman sitting behind a desk.  “This just in after footage supposedly leaked from Mount Massive Asylum went viral.  It depicts just how bad the conditions were at the asylum, run by the prestigious Murkoff Corporation.  So far Murkoff representatives have declined comment on the matter.  Some people thought that the footage was a hoax due to some seemingly supernatural occurrences caught camera, such as this footage of a shadowy figure exiting the asylum.”  I see the screen turn to a familiar grainy green, the front steps of the asylum.  And there’s me.  Desperately running to my Jeep, still limping, and this a*****e decided to catch it on camera before stealing my car.  I think about my own camera, shattered and sitting on the shelf, with footage that could really make some noise.  But I can’t.  I don’t want the attention, and more importantly, neither does he.  I turn my attention back to the television.

“Surrounded by armed guards provided by VIRALeaks, the association that first helped the cameraman release the footage, we finally were able to snag a few comments from the man himself.  As it turns out, the cameraman �" whose name is Waylon Park �" was a former employee of the Murkoff Corporation.”

The television shifts to a news anchor holding a microphone standing next to a man surrounded by armed guards; he is short and blonde, with stubble visible on the lower half of his face.  Healing bruises are visible on his face and neck.  The Walrider hisses in delight.  “Waylon Park,” I say quietly under my breath.

“So, Mr. Park, you say that you used to be employed by Murkoff?” the reporter asks.

“Yes.  During my time there I witnessed just a glimpse of the neglect and abuse that the patients had to endure.  When I tried to do something about it, I was committed and subjected to the experiments they were performing on the other patients.”

“Now when you say experiments, are you referring to what is shown in your footage as the Morphogenic Engine?”

“Not limited to that, but yes-” One of his guards nudges him, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.  Waylon nods and turns back to the reporter.  “I’m sorry, we are going to have to cut this short, but I can answer more questions in a few days at the panel.”

The camera cuts back to the woman in the newsroom.  I lean in closer to the TV.  “As mentioned in the brief interview with Mr. Park, there will be a panel meeting discussing what to do concerning the Murkoff situation.  We will be covering the panel live.”  I click off the TV, get up and walk over to my desk.  I plop down into my computer chair and pull up the search engine in my web browser.  I have to know where this panel is being held.  I have to get to Waylon Park.

© 2018 Sarah J Dhue

Author's Note

Sarah J Dhue
My Outlast (and Outlast: Whistleblower) fan-fiction. I wrote it before playing Outlast 2. I want to share it with other Outlast fans. That being said, if you have not played the games or do not have an extensive knowledge of them, the story will likely not make sense, seeing as I literally picked up my story where they left off.

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Added on February 18, 2018
Last Updated on February 18, 2018
Tags: SarahJDhue, Sarah J Dhue, Dhue, story, fiction, fan, fan fiction, Outlast, Outlast Whistleblower, Whistleblower, Red Barrels, Miles Upshur, Waylon Park, Walrider, Chris Walker, Wernicke, Murkoff


Sarah J Dhue
Sarah J Dhue

In the author's lair, IL

I am Sarah J Dhue. I am an author, as well as a photographer & graphic designer, currently going to school for web design. I've been writing since I was in elementary school. I live in Illinois. My f.. more..