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)
Her limbs began shaking. She remembered the woman from the psychiatric ward, the one who’d “survived” the crime scene, and knew that once the drug had fully taken hold, the people around her would become savages who had to be kept in permanent comas. But before that . . . before that . . . ready-made weapons. Knives. Forks. Glass. Chairs. So many potential weapons. And Franco had ensured they’d use anything and everything they could, even if that only meant their hands and teeth. “The police are on the way,” she said, the words soft and breathy, filled with panic. “I have to warn them not to bust in here.” These people would attack—viciously—and the cops would have to open fire, which would result in more panic and so much death.
“Go,” he said, pointing to the front of the church, where there was a quiet corner. Then he turned to a woman attempting to soothe one of the sobbing, howling men, speaking to her and handing her one of the inhalers. Myrna Watts. Lennon recognized her as Myrna Watts from the Gilbert House.
Lennon ran as silently as possible to the corner of the church and dialed the lieutenant. “Call off the officers dispatched here. Immediately,” she said. “Or you’ll kill them all. We have to keep these people calm, to distribute an antidote to those we can save. Trust me, please.” Then she hung up before the lieutenant could even respond, praying that he would do as she asked and trust her without explanation.
She met Ambrose where he was, cradling the head of a woman who was staring, her head bent back as tears slid down her face. He brought the inhaler to her nose and sprayed it, her features evening out as she sank back into her chair.
“Give me one,” Lennon said, and after he did, she moved to another table. The sobbing moans and punctuated shrieks were getting louder. In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter if they all kept calm or not. The ones who hadn’t been already would be quickly hurled into the pit of their own mind.
Lennon sprayed the nasal spray into an old man’s nose and then moved on to another. She, Ambrose, and Myrna split up and began traveling around the tables. It was clear now who was under the influence. “Keep them calm,” she whispered to the others, their expressions full of wide-eyed panic. “No sudden movements. Help them. Please don’t flee. It will start a stampede.”
But when a man let out a loud bellow, coming to his feet and snatching a fork, whirling around and stabbing at the air, the people around him rose from their chairs, gasping with terror and grabbing for weapons to defend themselves.
The sounds of panic caused others to rise from their seats, twisting and punching and kicking as they fought invisible monsters that were deep inside their minds.
Lennon was driven back, ducking away from a man who swiped at her with a broken piece of glass from a bottle he’d smashed on the table. He lunged after her, and she tripped but righted herself quickly, her heart beating so harshly she could barely breathe.
They had so little time, and the sounds were increasing in volume, those who’d already descended growing in number—four, five, now six. Off to her side, a wide-eyed older man had his hands clamped over the ears of the young man next to him, who was shaking with sobs, his eyes clasped shut, trapped in his trauma. But not too far gone, not yet.
Suddenly, from above her came one monstrous, resounding howl, and she looked up to see Franco on a smaller balcony, head tipped back as he let out a demonic shriek. He’d seen that the people who had taken his poison were being helped, and he was attempting to offset that help. Lennon’s adrenaline surged, fear and panic making her lightheaded.
What do I do? What do I do?
Classical music very literally lowers blood pressure and reduces anxiety. You should remember that, Picasso.
The words streamed through her mind as though Tanner had leaned in and repeated them, and she let out a gasp of breath as she brought the inhaler to the young man’s nose and released a spray. He whimpered, his head going to the table, eyes opening as he blinked around. She handed the inhaler to the older man who’d been helping him hold on. “Help them,” she said. “One squirt in a nostril. Quickly.”
“I will.” He stood immediately and moved toward the table next to him.
The fighting near the front grew louder, and Lennon jerked her head so the petrified DJ would step aside. She turned the volume all the way down. “A slow drumbeat,” she whispered to the DJ, eyes beseeching. Hurry. Hurry. He wasted no time, pressing a button that began the slow percussion, and then Lennon put her fingers on the keyboard and began to play one of Chopin’s nocturnes. For a brief moment, she was almost shocked that the piece came back so easily, and especially under the circumstances. But it did, moving through her fingers as though the notes had been waiting there all along, trapped, but now joyful to finally be set free.