The skunk-like miasma of Mortem fills Lydia’s nostrils, seeps through her skin, eyes, ears, clings to her clothes and suffocates her as she navigates its dark corridors. She needs to get out, to get air, to reach safety and reassess her options. Figure out a new plan. When she walked in here, a flame of confidence deep in her heart had shielded her from the lingering evil of the place. Kept it at bay. Now the flame is flickering, fading, dying, and the shifting figures at the corner of her vision stalk her every step, waiting for their opportunity to pounce.
“Did he bite?”
Lydia jumps as Gretchen’s voice drifts out from her office. “What?” she asks, stepping into the doorway.
“Jason,” says Gretchen, looking up from a pile of work. “How did it go?”
“Oh, fine,” Lydia lies.
Gretchen peers at her over the top of her thick, black spectacles, red hair spilling off her shoulder and onto the desk. She sweeps it back and tucks it behind her ear with a practised motion. “I bet,” she replies, coolly.
Lydia frowns. “Is something wrong, Gretchen?”
“Of course not,” says Gretchen. “I just…”
Suddenly a terrible, blood-curdling scream pierces the air from somewhere below, causing both women to jump, eyes wide.
“What was that?” Lydia asks, voice trembling.
“The intensive patients…” Gretchen whispers, her face frozen. She bolts out of her chair and almost knocks Lydia to the ground as she sprints out into the corridor.
“Wait!” Lydia calls after her, but Gretchen isn’t stopping. Lydia hesitates, torn between the desire to find out what’s going on, and the desire to get the hell out of there. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she chases after Gretchen.
A maze of dark, haunted corridors leads finally to a small, enclosed outdoor area, and then the cold, grey concrete of the intensive patient block. Lydia feels her stomach churn as they enter. This place wasn’t part of the tour when she first arrived, and now she sees why. Cramped and freezing, tiny windowless cells with concrete beds, no toilets, no nothing. Lamps that emit a mocking orange glow but no heat.
In the midst of this desperate setting, overall-clad guards are stabbing prisoners with tranquilizer-filled syringes and strapping them to stretchers. Four prisoners, two men, two women, all grotesque and evil in their own special ways. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Lydia recognises their faces from the stack of case files she reviewed when she first arrived at the asylum. Henry, short and stocky. Waylon, large and muscular. Holly, slim, busy, beautiful. Hillary with her wild mane of hair. Murderers all.
“Take them away!” barks a voice as its owner emerges from one of the now-empty cells.
“Warden!” Gretchen exclaims, running up to him. “What’s going on?!”
“Progress, Doctor Engel,” barks Shade, thumbs tucked into his waistband, looking very pleased with himself.
“What do you mean?” Lydia asks.
“We’ve helped these patients as much as we are able,” the warden replies, “now they’re moving on to receive more…” a nasty smile creeps across his face, “specialist care.”
“These are my patients.” Gretchen protests. “You can’t just take them away without my consent.”
“On the contrary, doctor,” Shade’s black eyes glint with malice, “their transfer has been approved by the highest authority. I couldn’t prevent it if I wanted to.” He eyes the four limp, drooling figures with disgust. “Not that I do want to.”
“Who?” Gretchen asks, desperately. “Who ordered this?”
“Government officials,” Shade growls, “that’s all you need to know, and all I am going to disclose. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get back to work?”
“You can’t speak to her like that,” Lydia bursts out, horrified. Warden Shade rounds on her.
“I hardly think you are in a position to be giving orders, Miss Tune,” he glowers, menacingly. “Perhaps you have already forgotten our little chat, hmm?” He leans towards her and whispers darkly. “Perhaps you need a little reminder?”
Lydia takes a step back and looks to Gretchen, who is frowning at her with confusion and fear.
“Good,” Shade booms, interpreting her silence as submission. “I already have quite enough on my plate to deal with. Although,” he grins nastily, “it will certainly be easier managing the reputation of this place without these four degenerates.” He looks at Lydia again. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Tune?”
“Where are they being taken to?” Gretchen interjects as the burly guards start carrying the loaded stretchers out of the cell block.
“Classified,” replies the warden, pointedly.
“That’s not right,” Gretchen protests. “I need to speak to their new doctor, pass on my notes at least.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” says Shade, smoothly. “But don’t worry, doctor, you won’t get in trouble. Everything has been taken care of.”
He turns and follows the last patient carried out, leaving Lydia and Gretchen alone in the empty prison, staring at each other in fearful, disbelieving silence.