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.

With the last of his effort, he picked up a chair and raised it over his head, threatening those closest to him with it, hating every moment of contributing to their agony. Their fear. Their terror. And as expected, several of the people swiveled toward him, rushing, lunging at him as he toppled backward. His heart broke. Shattered. But he used his quickly dwindling strength to punch and kick and engage. Fists connected, and something sharp pierced his neck, blood spurting as that man then turned on another. He lay back and allowed them to brutalize him. It was too late to save their minds, but he could save their souls.

He could ensure they’d die fighting. Like warriors.