Isolation Wing, last medicine run of the night; the latest run, the fewest stops. The med cart, manned by two large male orderlies, makes its way down the hall. It pauses only at the cells of the patients who are restrained and therefore, presumably, require no armed cover or extra bodies. A cell opens, one man goes inside, the other waits in the
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He sees John walk past him though.
"Hey! Let me out. I want out."
His forehead thunks against the thick plastic.
"Plleeeease? With a cherry on top. And.. some apples. And sugar. And just open the door, John."
He sneers at this Englishman who isn't going fast enough.
"Quick. Like a bunny."
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He stares in the small window a second, then unlocks the door.
"Make a move agains' me, sunshine, and I'll tear yer balls off. Now go on. Scarper!"
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Instead he pushes John out of the way. Red hair in a blur straight for... the open door of John's cell. Yay! Finally.
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"What in buggery are you doing? Hell with it. I don't want t'know."
He waves Vivian off, not interested in this madness. He has more important things to worry about, like finding a pack of smokes and getting a change of clothes.
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He leaves a few, poor patients twitching painfully on the floor for daring to try and make it for the doors. Filthy animals. He switches to a handgun full of rubber bullets and quietly wishes they were real as fire sprinklers soak his clothes and screaming mad men run around in the indoor rain. He will not allow this. No sir. Not in his asylum. Where are the troublemakers hiding? Not their cells, not the guard station, not outside.... The infirmary maybe? Perhaps?
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The place is in a state of disarray. Drawers and cabinets have been thrown open and supplies tossed about. Sheets and mattresses have been mussed and overturned, and now grow sodden under the sprinkler spray. No patients, at least -- or maybe they all fled. The night nurse wasn't as lucky. She lies thrown over her desk, obviously dead -- the angle of her neck might be a clue as to how, or maybe the way the left side of her face is as good as pulverised, pounded or bashed to hamburger.
There's rummaging sounds in the supply closet. Breaking glass.
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In light of this, the heroic Mr. J clamps one of his long, chilly hands down on Harley's shoulder and ushers her toward the infirmary door-she's been leading all along, anyway, so she'd might as well continue. He gets right up close behind her, peeking just over her head. The toxic spray bottle creeps up along her other shoulder, ready for action. Shuffle, shuffle, in we go.*
Quietly, almost too quietly to be heard over the rustle and clatter, as if he's speaking only to himself: "Anybodyyy...home?" He seems partly distracted by his own movements, his own looks here and there.
* That is, of course, unless Harley decides to put up a fuss about it!
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The dead night nurse does get a bit of a raised eyebrow and a face made. The disfigurement is a BIT troubling, and does make her a bit apprehensive about being the lead-in here. Not enough to say something about it, though. Shuffle forward and move ahead ten spaces!
Harley will, however, toss her soggy book on the floor. It's pretty much useless now!
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"Cheers, mate. Now, at least, you didn't die in vain."
He lights up as they step inside, breaking their attempt at silence a bit.
"What a fucking mess."
Ok, a lot.
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