Seventh chapter

He was in a strange neutral position - between limited life and the darkness of death, heard some echoes, words and a knock on the wooden surface somewhere in the far rooms, could not open sleepy eyes, because their weight was oppressive and dull. He tried to rise, stand up on his feet, but the water gurgled everywhere, as if in a Texas waterfall, because knowing all the signs, he could convince himself of that. His mouth was closed, but his breathing became much more difficult, and he did not know how he managed to get into such an incredible event.

Mrs. Glans drowned him by tying his hands to the handles on the railing of the fountain. Ronald Warner was in the garden, from where he had previously tried to get out, and where the trouble had come. Romulus Tompkins, Jane Farrain and Jack Waiton stood outside the front door, but they uselessly knocked on the bars on the windows and shouted at the ventilation pipe, the end of which hung on the window ledge, and the middle of it turned into a greenhouse. Apparently, their friend either hid and waited around the house, being in ambush, or had a conversation with the cook. The only thing that stopped the logical versions was that the circumstances were not connected with thoughts: for any reason, detective Warner could come out for a minute and say ideas on this matter. He did not appear before them, no matter how much they swore there.

As a result, they had to break through the path and run in different directions, keeping electric guns charged up to half in pockets ready, carefully inspecting the furniture and looking for hatches.

Nowhere did they notice traces of the presence of an employee, and a vague feeling “somewhere near” flashed before coming here - (did intuition?) There was an expectation, and yet only an expectation.

As if a barrier separated them from him, and Waiton, hearing the splashes of fluid nearby, nodded in the affirmative, making it clear "I guessed." The lock on the metal board did not give in, but the bullets only bounced off, I still needed a crowbar, or forceps, to completely cut the thick rod holding the brackets together. Tompkins managed to search every loophole and found plumbing tools in a regular flower vase, doused with turpentine and fertilizer, left to rot without use, and carried a disgusting scent from them. But, in order to save a friend, they had to stop accepting foreign objects and phenomena by all means, trying to open up to break through the alloy of iron, copper and aluminum.

Until episodes with Alex Ives...

- Nobody knows about the results of his or her behave. All they think, what having nothing good is good... - said Jack Waiton, pushing various heavy objects aside.

- Trying to looking like better than you are real, it is strange truly mask of your lie.

I lived, I live, I will live, as it should be out of kindness...- said Ronald Warner, coughing from the water.

- She listened to the originals of the spoiled and evil songs, hoping to find inspiration and strength there, but received suspicious looks and nightmarish dreams... - nodding at the door of the greenhouse, Ronald answered, recovering himself.

- Who are you talking about? - asked Jack.

- About Elizabeth Roide. Did she tell you about her life? Or do you think that changes for the better were throughout our acquaintance?

- I don’t know. I will try to understand you, what do you want to tell me... - Ronald answered, bursting out of the fountain with both hands.

- However, she was Glans, not Roide... - Jack confirmed, helping to a friend to dry uniform.

Mr. World's last memories

Part 1. Chapter 1.

Victor World. December 20, 2012, 22: 45. St. Monica's psychiatric hospital. Registration point. Was sitting in the booth, Richard Elmers, Nicholas Ivey. The hospital departments were quiet. An extra detour is necessary, but you should go quietly, so as not to Wake up. Those who could have destroyed the hospital were kept locked up. I stood near the window, watched my colleagues drink tea, eat cookies and discuss questions in a crossword puzzle, and invited them to come with me. We went boldly.

In the first compartment were the caricaturists. Silence. In the second - "Sleepwalkers" walked in groups of several people, opened the Windows, closed the doors, woke up because of sharp sounds and hid under the blankets. Boring. The third room was scary. In the fourth, there were drunks drinking. In the fifth, the gamblers. In the sixth - those with brain injuries. In the seventh - aggressors. In the eighth - epilepsy sufferers. In the ninth - somatic. In the tenth - from Dementiev to "peaks". Such were the people who lived in the asylum. It was clear that the surgeon was needed everywhere. The rounds didn't produce any results, as if sleep helped maintain an adequate lifestyle.

However, with the onset of pre-dawn twilight in the sixth and seventh departments, there was a stir, and the five doctors still had wonderful dreams. We are not ready for such a turn of fate.

"It's still dark!" Let me sleep! - I asked.

But Nicholas did Wake her up.

"The psychics are awake! Come on!" Nicholas said.

So they found boxes of ice water, built long hoses, connected the device to a water tower, and then - dragged the machine through the rooms, pouring frozen water on those who broke things and tried to slip out through the ventilation or balconies outside the hospital fence; they managed the electricity, but the rioters broke the staples on the doors, threw firecrackers into the emergency rooms.

Aggressive patients understood where the banks and tanks with chemical poison were located, took away the remaining devices, and launched a chemical-compounds of fluorine, manganese, saltpeter, and sulfur. The territory was infected, our people lost consciousness due to lack of oxygen, and six of them had torn fabric on their clothes, and they died immediately.

While retreating to the second floor, Richard, I, and the head of the Department found cabinets of gas masks and protective suits in time, got dressed, and got out of hiding. Then they ran with their weapons at the psychopaths, shot and chopped down those who dared to attack. Some quiet patients dragged to the third floor, in otrezvitel item, closed the Windows and doors, cleaned the room, threw the victims on the "black" output, took information out of the infirmary with quiet patients, locked entrances. The building was lit up with multicolored flames and burned down. The gas valves exploded. Many of the dead.

Bandits were treated here, they didn't think about it, just performed our duties. And the leaders of the city ran away with those who had already fled before the accident.

Nicholas just waved the hand that held the notebooks and left. They should have drunk more coffee than they should, or they would not have missed such a sad event. Now I'm sitting at my Desk, looking out the window and seeing the dead silence.