flattened faces with a power that belied his size, if not his girth.
Franco pulled on the guard’s uniform, took up the steel truncheon and unclipped the keys from the guard’s belt. Franco grinned. The keys felt good: a symbol of freedom. That solid metal in his hand; well, he thought, it smells like... victory!
As the fight whirled behind him Franco calmly walked to the gate, inserted the correct key and let himself out. He walked down the sterile cream corridor. Suddenly, an alarm sounded and Franco’s pulse quickened. He forced himself to remain calm as five mental nurses stampeded past him with bloody truncheons raised.
Abandoning composure, Franco ran down long corridors, truncheon tight in his sweating fist. He stopped, panting, by a window and gazed out into the rain. His eyes narrowed as he watched the internal fence barriers slamming into place. That could only mean one thing. They didn’t want anybody entering or leaving the premises. Mount Pleasant had entered CLAMPDOWN. That only happened on escape attempts.
“Bugger,” he whispered. They had neutralised Monkey. Done a head count. Now they realised Franco had gone. the Mount Pleasant Hilltop Institution had its own helicopter for the transferral of highly dangerous patients. This was Franco’s target. He tried to orientate himself to find the roof.
“Hello, Franco.” It was Betezh. His voice was smooth.
Franco started to back away. “Go to hell!”
“You did well to get this far. However, you must face reality and come back. Escape is... impossible.” The voice was soothing, hypnotic, tuned in to the drugs that Franco so regularly imbibed.
Franco frowned, whirled, and ran.
Betezh cursed. Together with three burly mental nurses, he took up pursuit.
Down corridors they sped, a little man waving a truncheon pursued by the big bouncing bullies of the playground. Franco dragged bins from their cubby-holes, sending them rolling back down corridors. He overturned a trolley filled with kidney shaped steel pans that clattered deafeningly to merge with the shrieking sounds of the alarm. These acts bought him a few precious seconds. But, ultimately, Dr. Betezh and his cronies were gaining. They had longer legs.
Franco rounded a corner in his frantic search for steps or a lift towards the roof—and Keenan’s promised airlift—only to find a modest square room mid-way down the corridor. It had chest-high counters and cupboards bolted to the walls.
Franco skidded to a halt, rattled the locked cupboards and cursed. His eye fell on a cardboard box. He ripped the retainers free, tore off a long curling strip, and gazed down at a hundred syringes. “Rasta Billy! Now we’re cooking!” He stood up just as Betezh and the guards slowed their pace, approaching with an inculcated instinct that had kept them alive over the years. They noted Franco’s stance. They muttered unhappily. It looked far too business-like...
Like a man on a mission.
Franco pulled free a hypodermic syringe, his arm came back, and he hurled it towards the group. It stuck, quivering like a dart, in the forehead of the lead nurse.
There was a moment of shock.
The nurse screamed.
Franco started to hurl syringes like throwing knives as Betezh and the other nurses fled, leaping into the air with little comedy yelps every time a hypodermic buried its two inch blade into thighs, rumps and unprotected necks.
In an abrupt reversal, the men rounded a corner and were gone. Predator became victim.
Shoving syringes into the pockets of his stolen uniform, Franco turned and sprinted away. Then he saw it. He almost ran past the damned thing, but caught a glimpse of a narrow steel doorway at the last possible moment.
It was a lift, a serviceelevator. He pressed the button. There came a distant analogue dring.
Franco jiggled on the spot. “Come on, come on.” Distant gears engaged, followed by a tired aural clanking.
“Comeon!”
Dr. Betezh appeared—warily—like somebody who’s
Franco pulled on the guard’s uniform, took up the steel truncheon and unclipped the keys from the guard’s belt. Franco grinned. The keys felt good: a symbol of freedom. That solid metal in his hand; well, he thought, it smells like... victory!
As the fight whirled behind him Franco calmly walked to the gate, inserted the correct key and let himself out. He walked down the sterile cream corridor. Suddenly, an alarm sounded and Franco’s pulse quickened. He forced himself to remain calm as five mental nurses stampeded past him with bloody truncheons raised.
Abandoning composure, Franco ran down long corridors, truncheon tight in his sweating fist. He stopped, panting, by a window and gazed out into the rain. His eyes narrowed as he watched the internal fence barriers slamming into place. That could only mean one thing. They didn’t want anybody entering or leaving the premises. Mount Pleasant had entered CLAMPDOWN. That only happened on escape attempts.
“Bugger,” he whispered. They had neutralised Monkey. Done a head count. Now they realised Franco had gone. the Mount Pleasant Hilltop Institution had its own helicopter for the transferral of highly dangerous patients. This was Franco’s target. He tried to orientate himself to find the roof.
“Hello, Franco.” It was Betezh. His voice was smooth.
Franco started to back away. “Go to hell!”
“You did well to get this far. However, you must face reality and come back. Escape is... impossible.” The voice was soothing, hypnotic, tuned in to the drugs that Franco so regularly imbibed.
Franco frowned, whirled, and ran.
Betezh cursed. Together with three burly mental nurses, he took up pursuit.
Down corridors they sped, a little man waving a truncheon pursued by the big bouncing bullies of the playground. Franco dragged bins from their cubby-holes, sending them rolling back down corridors. He overturned a trolley filled with kidney shaped steel pans that clattered deafeningly to merge with the shrieking sounds of the alarm. These acts bought him a few precious seconds. But, ultimately, Dr. Betezh and his cronies were gaining. They had longer legs.
Franco rounded a corner in his frantic search for steps or a lift towards the roof—and Keenan’s promised airlift—only to find a modest square room mid-way down the corridor. It had chest-high counters and cupboards bolted to the walls.
Franco skidded to a halt, rattled the locked cupboards and cursed. His eye fell on a cardboard box. He ripped the retainers free, tore off a long curling strip, and gazed down at a hundred syringes. “Rasta Billy! Now we’re cooking!” He stood up just as Betezh and the guards slowed their pace, approaching with an inculcated instinct that had kept them alive over the years. They noted Franco’s stance. They muttered unhappily. It looked far too business-like...
Like a man on a mission.
Franco pulled free a hypodermic syringe, his arm came back, and he hurled it towards the group. It stuck, quivering like a dart, in the forehead of the lead nurse.
There was a moment of shock.
The nurse screamed.
Franco started to hurl syringes like throwing knives as Betezh and the other nurses fled, leaping into the air with little comedy yelps every time a hypodermic buried its two inch blade into thighs, rumps and unprotected necks.
In an abrupt reversal, the men rounded a corner and were gone. Predator became victim.
Shoving syringes into the pockets of his stolen uniform, Franco turned and sprinted away. Then he saw it. He almost ran past the damned thing, but caught a glimpse of a narrow steel doorway at the last possible moment.
It was a lift, a serviceelevator. He pressed the button. There came a distant analogue dring.
Franco jiggled on the spot. “Come on, come on.” Distant gears engaged, followed by a tired aural clanking.
“Comeon!”
Dr. Betezh appeared—warily—like somebody who’s
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