He never meant to die this way: sprawled out on the floor, helpless and at the mercy of a couple thousand maniacs. Orren's head still hurt from the Maglite one the asshole guards had used to knock him out. He was pretty sure a lump approximately the size of Texas was forming on the back of his head. His skull felt as tiny marching band was slowly drilling through it, banging their drums and cymbals all the way. When he cracked his eyes open, the world above him looked hazy and out of focus.

Orren let out a pitiful moan as he began to stir. He slowly sat up, gathering his senses. The hallway he found himself in was dark, dirty, and he was pretty sure that there was a corpse laying at the end of it. No...wait...it was definitely still moving. Orren's heart jumped and his stomach took a dive; he was in the asylum. He was in the madhouse. The bloodbath. The loony hotel. He was in the asylum. The creature -he refused to call it a human being anymore- at the end of the hall was slowly getting up and staggering towards him. Orren began to panic as he looked around. He knew he wasn't alone; where was-

Orren turned to see Douglas laying in an equally uncomfortable position close by. He looked as though he was still out cold. Orren let out a stream of curses as he got up on his hands and knees and crawled over to him.
"Doug!" He whispered loudly, harshly. "Doug, wake up. This isn't fucking naptime, man. Comeoncomeoncomeonfuckfuckfuck. Get up!" Orren shook his unconscious coworker senselessly, desperate to wake him before the lumbering psychopath slowly making his way over split their heads in two and sucked out their brains. It sounded ridiculous, but Orren had seen worse things happen.

Zebra Cakes and chocolate milk.

Dylan used to love Zebra Cakes; what with their cheap, waxy icing and dry yellow cake. He had been particularly fond of dipping them in chocolate milk. He remembered the days when he was younger, sitting in the kitchen in a dark house, waiting for his parents to get home, eating junk food because no one was there to stop him. He'd almost forgotten what his parents had been like. They'd been kind enough, he supposed. They hadn't been around a whole lot. They'd always worked late; he was usually asleep by the time they got home. He guessed he kind of missed them. But to be honest, the company of a box of Zebra Cake sounded more tempting.

When patients like him were pushed to the side, forgotten and left to rot, feeding time didn't come so regularly. He was usually left to scrounge. He knew his way down to the kitchen, where food occasionally appeared. He knew where to stash things where they wouldn't be found. But old loaves of bread and stale potato chips did get tiring after a while. Dylan stared off into space as he thought about it.

Suddenly, the patient beside him gave a sudden yelp, causing Dylan to jump. He looked over at the guy, who had been curled up in a corner, crying for the past couple hours. He did this fairly often. Dylan somehow found it comforting to sit next to him. Something about knowing that his "friend" wouldn't try to kill put him at ease. Dylan had several friends around the hospital. He didn't know any of their names, or even really talk to them, but in his mind, they were friends. They passed each other in the hall, occasionally grunted at each other, and sometimes they even escaped from Frank together. Frank most certainly was not one of Dylan's friends.

The patient went back to huddling up and crying. Dylan was about to continue his mental autobiography when he heard something scrape in the room across the hall from them. A chair against the floor? A door creaking open? A led pipe being picked up? Dylan wasn't about to stick around and find out. He got up and slithered off down the hall to find somewhere else to stare off into space. Maybe he'd come back and visit his distraught friend later.

Jennifer Roland rolled the scalpel around her fingers and caught it by the handle, a slight smile crossing her face as she achieved the feat. Felling a little smug about finally mastering the same trick that she'd seen Jeremy perform with a pen, she looked around the room. Her eyes fell almost immediately on a small lockbox on the back of the self. She was standing in a Orderly supply room, little more that a broom cupboard full of shelves of everything from straight jackets to extra bed restraints, anything an Orderly would need. She walked over to the lockbox, her goal, and punched in the universal code on the mechanical keypad. The box cracked open and she collected the contents, several syringes and a small bottle marked "Haloperidol". She filled the syringes before storing them carefully in her labcoat and the discarded the now empty bottle.

Once she was done she stepped back out into the hall and was about to continue on her way a noise alerted her to someone's presence in the kitchen across from her.Jennifer cautiously entered the kitchen, scalpel in hand should she have to defend herself, but found a lone patient huddled in the corner. At the sight of the man, she relaxed and even smiled, drawing a syringe and slowly approaching the man. "Shhhh, shhhh." She cooed calmingly as she crept closer to the patient, who looked up at her with red eyes. She knelt next to him and calmly slipped the point of the syringe into his arm, dosing him with the tranquiliser.

A few minutes later Jennifer was back in her "workshop", an old medical exam room, panting slightly as she looked at the man she'd just dragged back from the kitchen. She'd had to hoist him up onto the exam table and had tied him down with the restraints. He was already starting to come too as the tranq wore off, she'd only given him enough to keep him quiet for a short time and now he was starting to move again and, finding himself restrained, began to panic.

"Fear is crucial..." She said in a lecturing tone as she sat down on a wheeled metal stool beside the table and pulled a tray of surgical instruments towards her, ignoring the patient's distress. "You see only those who have experienced enough fear and pain can activate the Morphogenic Engine and control the Swarm." She looked down at the struggling man before turning her attention to her tools picking up each bloodstained blade and examining it like a butcher inspecting his knives. "This is why I need you alive. So you can feel fear and pain and unlock that secret." She picked up a pair of scissors and cut open the man's raggard smock, exposing his chest and then traded the scissors for her scalpel. She adjusted her latex gloves and leaned over him to look into his face. "I hope you can help me find the secret." She said earnestly as she took the scalpel to his chest and his screams rang out, echoing through the empty halls.

The heavy footsteps grew closer, and Orren was in full panic. He grabbed Douglas under the arms and drug him away, cursing and swearing all the while. The patient, who he had been so sure was coming after them, turned off into a room, disappearing into the darkness. Orren paused, letting out a sigh of relief. He didn't let his guard down long, however. He rearranged his hold on his coworker and continued to drag the unconscious man into a different room, closing the door behind them.

"Okay. Fuck. What are we gonna' do? You know this would be a lot easier if you'd wake the fuck up." He shot a dirty glance at Douglas, then sighed. "Alright, I guess I'm gonna' have to handle this myself. You...stay here and hide, I guess." He looked around, then spotted a locker off in the corner. Orren grabbed Douglas and hoisted him up, shoving his limp form into the locket and closing the door. "That should keep you out of sight until I can get some help..." Orren looked around for anything useful. Why was it so dark in here? "Oh, wait a second." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, which had a little mini flashlight on the keychain. Orren knew it would be useful some day.

"Well...I guess I'm gonna go...get help. Just stay in there and fucking sleep, I guess." He felt bad for leaving Douglas there to fend for himself, but what could he do? They were a sitting duck here. At least Douglas had that video camera thing he'd used to gather evidence. All Orren had was a lousy flashlight. Clearly he was the one who had gotten the short end of the stick.

Orren turned back to the door and braced himself. He crept up to it and pressed his ear to the wood. He couldn't hear anything; maybe the coast was clear. He cracked the door open and slipped out, only to come face to face with one of the many variants. The patient's face was mutilated and deformed, a broad grin on his face. Orren let out a rather feminine shriek before turning and hauling ass out of there.

The hospital seemed quiet today. Dylan slunk through the darkness as if he belonged there. Perhaps he did. With no sign of company or danger, he slowly let his guard down. He was headed to visit one of his favorite places in the asylum: the breakroom. The soft, blue glow of the Pepsi machine had an almost therapeutic calm to it. It hummed softly; and the side of it was warm. Dylan had found himself frequenting the machine during the winters, when the asylum was sometimes so cold that the blood on the floors froze. He would curl up in the dark corner beside the machine, huddled in a blanket. With the door closed, he sometimes felt safe.

Dylan rounded the corner and was met by the glowing, beat up machine. He lumbered over to his corner and plopped down, leaning his head against the side of it. Another variant occasional visited this room; a friend. Dylan hadn't seen him in a while. He figured the guy was probably dead. Maybe Frank ate him.