Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Franco howled and pounded and shrieked from above while Lennon’s fingers moved over the keys from below, the slow drumbeat keeping time.
The fighting continued, a woman launching herself halfway across the table as those who’d run began streaming out through a side door. What did they have? Three minutes? Maybe less, before so many of these souls were trapped in an eternal nightmare.
Tears streamed down Lennon’s face. She knew the people in front of her, twisting and writhing and sobbing, were fighting unthinkable battles. Alone.
But the physical fight was spreading, and soon even those who’d remained still and calm, protecting the people silently suffering, would have no choice but to abandon them to save themselves. And then they would plunge to their own internal death, too, and it would all spread like wildfire until the police had no choice but to come in and kill them all.
There were still several tables of victims clawing at the tabletop, barely holding on, as Ambrose, Myrna, and the older man Lennon had given the inhaler to made their way over. A fight had broken out in front of them, however, and a man who’d submitted to the drug was swinging a broken chair leg around, his grunts of pain causing two women who’d been on the floor to rise and join the melee.
Oh God. Ambrose. Hurry. Hurry.
They had to save as many as possible. But not at the expense of more innocent lives. Once the antidote was out, she’d be forced to shoot the ones who were intent on fighting to the death. They were victims, too, though, and it was going to kill her to have to do it.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor appear at the bottom of the stairs. He’d dropped down from the choir balcony, leaving his vaulted place of protection and deciding instead to enter the fray.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Pounding down the door that led from the choir balcony to the stairs wasn’t an option—he wouldn’t risk even one tender psyche with the loud sound of splintering wood—and so in the end, Dr. Sweeton had jumped to the floor below. His leg was likely broken; useless, anyway. And he was bleeding out. The room tilted, but he managed to pull himself upright. Ambrose and the other two people were hurrying among the tables, administering the antidote. There was no more time left, though, and the man had turned, holding up the tiny bottle to Ambrose, gesturing that his was empty.
There were only two more tables to go, and the people there appeared to be on the brink of total mental collapse as Ambrose and the woman rushed toward them, in the direction where the doctor now stood. Next to each of them was a brave, kind soul who was taking a great personal risk to calm and soothe. Hold on. Hold on. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he felt a sob building inside. Humans could be terrible, and beautiful too. It was the only certainty he had left.
Two more tables, and Ambrose and the others would have reached all those who could be helped.
Maniacal laughter echoed from above, but Lennon’s music floated in the air. He saw a few expressions smoothing, shoulders lowering. They were caught in that beautiful song, their minds so suggestive. She was offsetting the horror, and he didn’t know how she’d known to do that, but she had. The music, the beautiful music, had interrupted their nightmare. Good thinking, Lennon. She played effortlessly, not a single harsh note. Not one forgotten melody. And that unceasing drumbeat, the one that mimicked a heartbeat, the first thing that grounded and comforted all humans, even before sight or touch. Lennon seemed to know exactly when to pick up the tempo of her accompanying music and when to slow it down, responding to the hellish sounds Franco was bent on making from above. He was banking on a violent free-for-all, the only thing that would allow him to escape now.
A man wielding a chair leg swung it at Ambrose, and he ducked as others rushed forward, seeking the threat, fighting the monsters in their minds.
Ambrose and the others weren’t going to make it here, and the antidote must be mostly gone. These people were already on borrowed time, the music likely the only thing keeping them from sliding into their personal torment.
He knew Lennon could only play so long. She’d have to begin shooting them, if it came to that. And if they didn’t die . . . they’d live submersed in that torment forever. Or if the police came in, as they must be about to do, they’d capture and restrain them, and unknowingly sentence them to eternal hell.
He couldn’t allow that.
Another man joined in the fight, and then a woman. It was spreading, growing, and now Ambrose and the woman helping him distribute the antidote would have to retreat from the fray and be forced to abandon the victims still hanging on. Only moments ago, maybe half an hour, these people had considered themselves colleagues, if not friends. Certainly not enemies. And now? They are intent on destroying each other. It was nearly over, but there were still lives to be saved. And he could still do something to help with that.